


The Labors of Prompto Argentum

by Anonymous



Series: The Labors of Prompto Argentum [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Episode Ardyn Spoilers, Episode Ignis Spoilers, Episode Prompto Spoilers, Gaslighting, M/M, Sex, dealing with grief, triumph in the face of adversity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 125,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Prompto doesn’t want for much in life, only to stand at the side of his oldest friend until the end of his days on Eos. Unfortunately, without knowing how long Noctis is supposed to be trapped in the Crystal—orwhere said Crystal currently is, thanks to Ardyn’s continued meddling—Prompto has no choice but to travel back to the first magitek facility in Niflheim to unearth whatever Verstael Besithia, Ardyn’s closest confidant, knew about Noct’s unexpected internment.it’s therefore really too bad that Ardyn can presently think of no better way to stave off his boredom than to interfere with Prompto’s plans…
Relationships: Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum/Ardyn Izunia, implied Aera Mirus Fleuret/Ardyn Izunia, implied Verstael Besithia/Ardyn Izunia
Series: The Labors of Prompto Argentum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931869
Comments: 278
Kudos: 121
Collections: Anonymous





	1. A proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The fact that Prompto, Gladiolus, and Ignis apparently worked solo for the better part of the ten years leading up to Noctis’ return really intrigued me. Coupled with the fact that Prompto was really quite resourceful operating on his own during his DLC mission (outside the times he received help from Aranae), it really made me wonder what kind of trouble he would get up to in the ‘post-apocalyptic’ world, especially after Ardyn promised Noctis that he would keep his friends company...
> 
>  **Update:** I have not read the 'Dawn of the Future' book that was just released, the one that proposes something of an alternate ending to FFXV, and I probably won't get the chance until after I finish writing this story. As such, I apologize if any characters wind up having a non-canonical background (i.e. Aranea, Wedge, Biggs...).

~***~

The nights are getting longer.

It’s only been two weeks since the incident, and already Prompto can tell that the daylight hours are dwindling faster than anticipated. It’s a somber thought, crouched as he is by the gurgling stream, glancing over the adjacent lake to where the sun is slowly dipping behind the mountains. The dying light casts a rosy glow over the kingdom; it makes for quite a beautiful sunset. He’d be tempted to take a picture of it if it weren’t for the lingering heaviness in his heart and the fact that he’s eaten up the last of the space on his camera’s memory card.

Sighing, he unscrews the lid of his 2 litre bottle and sets it standing up in the dirt. He then drops one end of his filtration pump’s tube into the stream and the other in the bottle, working the handle until enough water has been pulled through to fill it up. He polishes off his work by dropping a few purification tablets into the bottle, screwing its lid on loosely, and then briefly turning the whole thing upside down to bleed the threads, clearing it of any lingering bacteria.

‘ _Bacteria— **ha**_ ,’ he thinks bitterly to himself as he finally screws the lid on tighter. The Starscourge is whittling away at humanity, and here _he_ was, worried about a little stomach bug.

All the same, he knows Gladiolus and Ignis will probably appreciate the effort when he returns to camp with the fresh water in tow. In fact, he doesn’t miss the way a small smile graces Iggy’s lips when he returns to camp and gives the bottle a loud shake, saying, “Who wants a cold one?”

Gladio, who’s standing at their folding table, dicing vegetables and meat according to Ignis’ instructions, glances up at Prompto and gives him a small grunt. Prompto doesn’t know if that means he’s interested in a drink or annoyed by his feeble quip, but thankfully Ignis saves Prompto from his mounting anxiety over the situation by replying with a sincere, “Yes, please.”

Prompto pours them each a mug, handing one to Ignis and leaving Gladio’s on the corner of his little work-station. Silence prevails between them then for the better part of the evening, which has become something of the norm now. They’re not half as chatty as they used, beyond their wild postulations about where they’re supposed to be going and what they’re supposed to be doing. Even then, they don’t have much of an answer yet. After all, it’s hard trying to figure out what your new purpose in life is once the old one’s been literally sucked into a glowing hunk of stone.

Like his comrades, it’s taken Prompto a while to digest what really happened back in Gralae. As the Chosen One, Noctis was always destined to receive all the power the Crystal could afford him to fight back the darkness, although Prompto had no idea that would entail being entombed within it for gods know how long. He also had no idea said Crystal would immediately wander off into the wild blue yonder, because in the midst of debating over how they were going to haul the damn thing out of Niflheim, it vanished into thin air. Ignis suspects Ardyn has something to do with that, and Prompto agrees, even if only because he can’t think of a better explanation.

They stumbled across Aranea along their trek out of the capital and were all too happy to hop aboard her ship for a quick ride back to Cleigne. She dropped them off a little ways outside Lestallum, although they were still trying to determine whether it would be better to stay there or return to Insomnia. Now that the Niflheim Empire was in the throes of death, there was really nothing to stop them from returning home. In fact, if Ardyn _had_ absconded with the Crystal, Prompto was willing to bet money that bastard would want to flaunt his victory all over Noctis’ birthplace. He just had that kind of flair about him. From the moment they met him, Ardyn had always been so overdramatic and… _oily_.

A perfect prima donna, really.

Gladio apparently agrees because right before he ducks into their tent for the night, he stops and says, “Sooner or later, that bastard is going to want everyone in the world outside Niflheim to know that he’s got us under his thumb. What better place to broadcast that message than Insomnia?”

“Is that where you think we should go next?” Prompto asks, hoping this means they finally have a destination in mind.

“No,” Ignis quickly interjects from his seat by the fire. “We shouldn’t push another confrontation with the Chancellor so soon. Beyond the fact that he’s more powerful than we initially gave him credit for, we haven’t the slightest idea where he’s taken Noctis. Let’s _not_ entice Ardyn to hurt him before we’ve figured out how to extract him.”

Gladio opens his mouth before quickly snapping it shut again, somehow unable to give voice to his disagreement. Even so, he lingers by the tent, hands clenched at his sides, like he’s searching for a way to argue for an earlier assault.

In the hope of nipping any heated arguments in the bud, Prompto decides there’s really no better time to finally get his most pressing question out into the open. Clearing his throat, he therefore asks, “Was that supposed to happen? ––When Noctis was sucked into the Crystal, I mean.”

Both Prompto and Gladio only caught a glimpse of Noctis’ incredible vanishing act at the end of the corridor leading to the Crystal, but despite the bizarreness of it all, Ignis seemed to have no trouble at all believing what they had seen. Which is why his sudden silence unsettles Prompto. For some reason, he thought Ignis of all people would have an answer.

As the ‘Hand of the King’ and Noctis’ number one advisor, Ignis was supposed to know _all_ that the king knew and more…

“…I’m not sure,” Ignis finally admits, voice soft, clearly ashamed of his lack of knowledge on the subject. “It’s always been known that the True King is a vessel for the Crystal’s powers and that those powers are usually conducted to him through the Ring of Lucii. Likewise, we know that the soul of each king will eventually dwell inside the ring until they are called upon by the True King for aid. The fact that someone could be drawn into the Crystal _itself_ , body and soul, is a crucial piece of information that wasn’t faithfully carried down through the centuries—assuming, of course, that the Six ever bothered to mention this phenomenon to anyone of the human race.”

“Ardyn clearly knew that was going to happen,” Gladio mutters.

“I doubt the Chancellor is anything _remotely_ human.”

“But he had to get that information from _somewhere_.”

Ignis reaches up to adjust his sunglasses, then rubs his fingers across his brow, clearly exhausted. “Then research into the matter should be one of our top priorities.”

Again, Gladio looks as though he has something to say about that, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Then he disappears into the tent, leaving his companions alone by the fire to mull over the newest problem in their midst.

Thankfully, though, they manage to come up with something of a game plan the following morning.

And by ‘ _they,_ ’ Prompto means Gladio and Ignis.

He wakes much later than usual to find them already working on breakfast, which is something of a shame because Prompto wholly intended to cook a meal for them for a change. He has a feeling one of them switched off the alarm clock on his phone so that they could have a private conversation before he woke, which is probably for the best because they both finally look a little relaxed for the first time in weeks.

“The Marshal called,” Ignis says as soon as he hears Prompto emerging from the tent. He’s standing beside Gladio at their little kitchen station, slowly and carefully buttering a piece of toast. “The Glaive is searching for Ardyn and the Crystal but have uncovered nothing yet. He agrees that it doesn’t make sense for us to leave Cleigne until they have something more substantial to work with. Until then, Gladiolus and I intend to train.”

Prompto nods. He knows the abrupt loss of vision must still be getting to Ignis. The other man has been holding out quite well in battle from what Prompto can tell, but he went from executing moves flawlessly to suddenly stumbling every few steps. It makes sense that he would want to spend this unexpected hiatus honing his skills for Noctis’ return.

Gladio flips one of the eggs over in his pan and says, “Once we get Ignis up to speed again, I figure there’s a few things I can teach you. With a sword, anyway. I think you’re already pretty much an ace with your guns.”

Even though it’s been ages since his loner days in elementary school, Prompto still finds himself somewhat speechless whenever someone offers him a compliment. It’s especially nice coming from a fully fledged member of the Crownsguard, the Special Unit in which Prompto’s position is still technically only honorary. It wasn’t supposed to be just ‘honorary’ forever, of course. In fact, he started training at a shooting gallery in his free time just a few months before he graduated High School once Noctis suggested he should apply—and then Gladio and Ignis raced him through a more formal crash course once Noctis’ marriage had been announced so that Prompto could collect his badge and join the bridal party. At the time, he thought it was a little funny that everyone held on to the outdated belief that it was a groomsman’s literal duty to protect the newlyweds during the ceremony, but after everything that had happened this past month, _boy_ was he glad they’d taught him how to tuck and roll without spraining something.

“That would be _awesome_ ,” Prompto says, and he really means it. Whenever they get Noctis back—and they _will_ get Noctis back, mark his words—he wants to be in pristine fighting condition for round two with Ardyn.

Gladio cracks a smile, the first one in just about forever.

“In the meantime,” Prompto continues, because he doesn’t want to be a dead weight while he waits to rev up his own training, “I can start hunting down more information about the Crystal.”

“That might turn into a literal ‘ _hunt_ ’,” Ignis replies as he carefully picks up another piece of toast. “There was no mention of this phenomenon in the Citadel’s archives, and Lestallum’s library is nowhere near as extensive as our own. You can still search around Lestallum, of course, but I would suggest that you refrain from travelling elsewhere until we can find you a suitable companion.”

Prompto doubts anyone could find him a better travel buddy than either of these two guys, but he follows Ignis’ suggestion and starts his search in Lestallum. Unfortunately, the library there really is a pitiful thing. It’s crammed into a small room not much bigger than his apartment above a bakery near the central market and boasts a grand total of ten bookshelves. Prompto knows most people prefer digital reading resources, but holy cow. Roughly 90% of the books focus on engineering, 8% on fiction, and the final 2% on a truly miscellaneous mix. In the end, he only manages to find three books that mention the Crystal, and one of them is a dictionary.

Ignis doesn’t seem much surprised when Prompto shares this dismal discovery with him. He promises to ask Cor where else they could find information about the Crystal, but Prompto is stuck sitting idle until then.

As for Gladio and Ignis, they spend almost every hour of the day at a gym just a few blocks down from the apartment in Lestallum that they’re now subletting, having had their fill of camping. They return each evening looking thoroughly exhausted, although Ignis more so than his sparing companion. Prompto wants to ask them how things are progressing, but he figures they’d give him an update without prompting if the answer was ‘smoothly.’

Prompto winds up spending the next few days practicing with his firearms and scouring the internet for clues. In the evenings, he decides to take up the task of cooking dinner for his companions. He starts off with simple recipes, usually with ingredients that require little preparation, but by the second week in their apartment he begins working on something a little more difficult. He makes pasta from scratch, which turns out better than expected, so Ignis shares something of a secret recipe with him and rattles off the necessary ingredients from memory. The following day finds Prompto in the central market, prowling the stalls in search of the spices he needs for tonight’s meal.

And it’s as one of the vendors is packaging his purchases that Prompto feels the winds of fate caressing the nape of his neck.

He glances over his shoulder to find a woman standing there.

“How’s life been treating you, shortcake?”

It takes Prompto a moment to recognize Aranae. She’s ditched her intricate armor for a regular pair of jeans and a button up top, no doubt to better blend in with the locals. Everyone is still antsy over the continued assault of magitek soldiers in the surrounding area, so her simple disguise makes perfect sense.

“Pretty well, all things considered,” Prompto replies, offering her a small smile.

“Still stressful then?”

He wonders if the weight of everything somehow shows in his face, if she can tell how useless he really feels right now with just a glance.

“You got time for a coffee?” She asks, nodding her head toward the little al fresco dinning area at the end of the stalls.

He nods.

As if he could ever say no to her.

Once he’s collected his spices, he joins her at a small table near the back of the restaurant, far from potential eavesdroppers. She’s already ordered them each a drink. Prompto sips at the latte she bought for him appreciatively, delighted by the unexpected company.

“I spotted your friends at the gym,” Aranae says, hands cupped around her drink to soak up the warmth. It’s been a little chillier than usual these last few days, which has Prompto wondering if this drop in temperature, like the encroaching darkness, is doomed to be the new norm. “They tell me you’ve been busy with a little research.”

“If you could call it that,” he mutters, staring down into his drink.

“They mentioned the Crystal.”

“Did they say what happened to Noctis?”

“Yep.”

Prompto shrugs, because he really has no idea where to go from here, but then he glances up at Aranea and sees something of a gleam in her eyes. “…Do you know something about the Crystal that we don’t?” he asks.

“No,” she replies, but she looks pleased, like she has something to tell him that’s almost just as good. “I _do_ , however, happen to know someone who’s studied the mythology behind Lucis and the Crystal quite extensively.”

“You are _one-hundred_ percent my favorite person right now,” he says, unable to hide the small quiver of excitement in his voice. This is honestly the best news he’s heard all week. “Who is it?”

“Verstael Besithia.”

It takes his brain a second to register why that name sounds so familiar before realization dawns on him. Subconsciously, he leans back a little in his chair, muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing.

“He’s…dead,” Prompto reminds her quietly. And good riddance to the man, really. Prompto no longer has any regrets about putting his so-called ‘father’ out of his misery.

“Yeah, but he took notes on just about everything under the sun. I’m not kidding when I say his archives are a veritable _beast_ compared to anything in Insomnia.”

‘ _How?’_ Prompto wonders, but the answer occurs to him a moment later. Besithia hadn’t been the only monster Prompto encountered at the magitek production facility in Niflheim. Ardyn had been there too.

And _Ardyn_ , obviously, knew _everything._

Aranea seems to know what he’s thinking, because she finally takes a sip of her own drink and then says, “The Chancellor was apparently closer to Besithia than anyone else in Niflheim. They shared a lot of secrets between each other. Spent a lot of time together in that research facility…”

Ardyn obviously knew what happened to Noctis because he instigated this whole goddamn mess, so if he really was close to Besithia, then the information Prompto is searching for could very well be somewhere in his notes.

There’s just one problem with this situation.

“I can’t go back there alone,” Prompto says immediately. Besides his residual fear of the godforsaken place, he has a feeling neither Gladio nor Ignis would want him to return to Niflheim _period_.

“Who says anything about you going alone?”

Prompto blinks at her, confused. “Wait… _you_ want to go back there?”

“It’s a treasure trove of military secrets,” she reminds him. In fact, that’s the whole reason she bumped into him in the first place back in Niflheim. “So, yeah, I plan on heading out tomorrow. I just dropped by Lestallum today to stock up on a few things. After chatting with your friends, it occurred to me that this trip could be beneficial to the both of us.”

His memories of that cold and desolate place still give Prompto the chills, but he’s having trouble outright declining her offer. If she and her men are with him, well…that just might work.

Nervous, Prompto drinks his latte and tries not to feel pressured by the knowing crook of Aranea’s lips. Again, neither Gladio nor Ignis would be too pleased with this preposition. He’s already told them what happened to him the first time he was there. They also know he would be far removed from any kind of help, beyond whatever Aranea could offer him.

But, then again…did they _need_ to know that Niflheim was where he was going?

“You can sleep on it,” Aranea says, “but we both know you want to say ‘yes’.”

“…Maybe.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” She pulls out her cellphone, fiddles with it for a second, and then hands it across the table to him. When he takes it from her, he sees that she’s opened up a new contact file. “Don’t worry about packing any food or water. We’ll handle the basics.”

“I haven’t quite agreed to go with you yet,” he says, even as he fills out his information. He has no idea what he’s going to say to the guys tonight. They probably wouldn’t mind him travelling around with Aranea, but he _really_ doesn’t think he can tell them about Niflheim.

“True, but you and your friends are clearly devoted to one another,” Aranea says as he hands her back her phone, “so I can’t exactly see you turning down this offer.”

Momentarily, Prompto thinks back to his brief stay in Gralae, waking up strapped to a cross, wondering if he was really going to die alone like this. Seeing Noctis’ worried face when he was eventually set free, a reminder that their friendship genuinely meant something to the other man, still resonated inside him. They would be there for each other until the bitter end, no matter the cost.

With this in mind, Prompto knows that she’s right.

When she calls him tomorrow morning, he won’t say no.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Brace yourself, Prompto...


	2. Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Having set the stage for disaster, Prompto steps boldly out into the starring role. 
> 
> Take care, my sweet summer child...
> 
>  _Side note:_ In an interview somewhere, it was stated that Prompto isn't a 100% complete clone of Verstael. Someone had asked if he was going to end up bald one day too, to which the answer is no. I just find it a little weird, yet funny, that Verstael would waste all that time and energy perfecting his clones when he was just going to harvest them later anyway,

~***~

Prompto spends the better part of the evening agonizing over how he’s supposed to inform his companions of his impromptu trip. He’s so distracted with mulling over the million different things they might say to grill him for more information that he almost burns the chicken for tonight’s meal. He’s also pretty sure he adds too much flour and pepper to the spice mix for the sauce, but he didn’t think to buy enough for a do-over. He doesn’t know how Ignis _won’t_ figure out something is up with the first bite.

Whether Ignis does, in fact, taste the difference on the first bite Prompto will never know because the man has the decency to take a second before saying, “It’s not quite how I remember it…but you’ve done well.”

“Thank you,” Prompto mumbles, left knee bouncing nervously. He slips his hand under the table and curls his nails into his thigh, willing it to stop.

Unfortunately, it isn’t his knee that gives him away but rather the pained expression on his face, because Gladio takes one look at him from across the table and asks, “What happened today?”

Thankfully, that’s a lowball question; it’s been running through his head for the better part of the evening, and so he thinks he’s tailored his answer appropriately. Sticking with the short and sweet variety, Prompto says, “I ran into Aranea at the market.”

“Oh yeah?” Gladio’s lips curl into smile. “We bumped into her at the gym. She said she was going to continue globetrotting while we still have the daylight hours to burn.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“And what did _you_ say?” Gladio asks, showing a little teeth now. He never passes up an opportunity to rib Prompto whenever it comes to the ladies. “You’re blushing, kid. I figure you did something phenomenally stupid when you saw her.”

Now operating with the knowledge that Prompto is apparently blushing, Ignis tilts his head curiously to one side, his glass of water lifted halfway to his mouth, and says, “You didn’t ask her out, did you?”

“Gods, _no_ ,” Prompto laughs weakly because they’re _well aware_ that he could never muster up the courage to pursue a woman of Aranea’s moxie. But then it dawns on him that he’s just been set up with a rather nice segue into the most difficult part of this conversation, so he clears his throat and quickly adds, “She kind of asked me out instead.”

Ignis, who clearly wasn’t expecting that kind of answer, chokes on his mouthful of water.

Gladio just sits there in silence for a moment, completely dumbfounded. Eventually, he manages to say, “You’ve _got_ to be shitting me…”

“Not on a date,” Prompto clarifies after he’s had his fill of their gaping expressions, because there’s no way in hell he could swing that story. Aranea belongs to a whole other level _well_ above and beyond any of them. “After I told her that I was searching for information on the Crystal, she invited me along with her.”

Once Ignis has collected himself, dabbing his mouth and chin dry with his napkin, he says, “That’s incredibly generous of her…”

“That really is,” Gladio agrees, “but Aranea’s a merc by trade and a businesswoman at heart. What’s she getting out of babysitting you for however long this trip is supposed to last?”

“She helped me in Niflheim without expecting anything in return,” Prompto reminds him. That really _was_ generous of her, and he still doesn’t know how he’s supposed to pay her back for that. “And she hasn’t asked me for anything now. I mean, I know how to operate a gun when the going gets tough, so she’ll have an extra body in battle at least.”

“And she’ll have herself a halfway decent cook,” Ignis adds, “although I would caution you against running headlong into battle. There are more daemon sightings every day, and I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse from here on out.”

“I’m not going to look for trouble.”

“How long are you planning to be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, staring past Gladio at the kitchen stove, wondering now how they’re going to get along without him. Of course, they’re both grown men—both more capable than he is in _many_ different ways—but he feels bad for dropping this slack on them after only just picking it up. “I’m kind of hoping no more than a week or two. I’ll probably return whenever Aranea drops by Lestallum again for more supplies, unless you guys get wind of where Noctis is before then…”

Gladio glances over his shoulder to follow his line of regard and snorts. “Iggy won’t say it, but he’s dying to start cooking again. It’s nice being able to eat the minute we walk through the door, but we can manage by ourselves while you’re gone.”

“We’ll try cooking something together when you return,” Iggy suggests, smiling faintly, like he rather enjoys the idea of that.

Prompto does too, shifting in his seat as something warm blossoms inside his chest. He remembers when he first met the man, how nerve-wreaking it had been to slip into the backseat of his car with Noctis after class and listen as Ignis chastised the young prince for almost failing yet another math exam. Prompto was too afraid to look the other man in the eye for the first year or so, but after everything that had happened during this trip, he feels as though they might be more of friends than close acquaintances by now.

This feeling lingers with him after they’ve polished off their meal and Prompto wanders off to finish packing. He bought a warmer jacket and gloves before heading home that afternoon, which he is in the process of stuffing into his bag when Ignis steps halfway into his bedroom and leans against the doorframe, as if to watch him work. Initially, this gives Prompto quite the start, until he remembers that Ignis can’t actually see all the cold weather gear he’s trying to cram out of sight before Gladio finishes the dishes.

“I have something for you,” Ignis says, extending his right hand. In it is a small knife with a black handle, inlaid with an intricate silver pattern of what looks like lilies. Prompto knows it probably has a fancy name, but since he’s never seen Ignis wield it before, he hasn’t the slightest idea what that could be.

“On loan, you mean?” Prompto asks, stepping over to take the proffered gift. It feels as though it weighs next to nothing in his hand.

Ignis reaches behind himself to pull something out of his back pocket, which turns out to be its leather sheath. “No, this is yours to keep. With Noct still missing, I don’t know how long we’ll have access to the weapons we’ve stored in his armiger. I think it would be wise to begin collecting new arms that you can carry at all times. Let this be your first.”

“I don’t know what to say…” Prompto’s not accustomed to receiving random gifts. Of course, his parents always gave him a present on his birthday, and he’s exchanged gifts with Noctis several times before, but he’s never been suddenly handed something that looks like it could be a priceless family heirloom. He doesn’t exactly feel… _worthy_ of it. “It’s too beautiful. I can’t take this.”

Despite being blind, Ignis somehow knows just where to put his hand to push Prompto’s away when he tries to return the knife. “I had six of these commissioned as a souvenir for the bridesmaids and groomsmen. I chose the alstroemeria for you because it represents friendship and devotion. This is yours and yours alone.”

“As…astroemeria?” Prompto inquires, not sure he heard that right the first time.

“ _Al_ stroemeria,” Ignis gently corrects him. “It’s a type of lily. They were one of Noct’s favorite flowers, although I doubt he knew what they were called either.”

Staring down at the knife, Prompto wonders how it would’ve been to receive this on Noct’s actual wedding day, donning the Kingsglaive attire they’d been given to wear for the event, looking smart and trying their damnedest to act smarter just for once in their lives. It was supposed to be a happy occasion. Noct was going to marry the girl he’d been crushing on since childhood, and then they were all going to drink and dance the night away as only the best of friends truly can.

The knife is beautiful, but its reminder of the might-have-beens leaves him with a heavy heart. There’s no point in thinking about what he once assumed was their future. People used to say that the sun would always come up tomorrow, but how many tomorrows did they have left before that old idiom was no longer true?

Everything that once was is now ruined.

He’s glad Ignis can’t see the pain in eyes as he sheathes the knife. The man is in a worse position than he is right now, completely blind and having lost the young charge he’s protected all his life. Prompto’s anguish pales in comparison.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll probably bug you and Gladio for some tips on how to fight with this when I return, but I’ll definitely bring it along for the trip.”

“I have an ankle holster you can use for it.”

“That’d be nice.”

When Ignis disappears to collect said holster, Prompto finishes packing. He leaves the knife on his nightstand for now because he’ll tuck it into his boot first thing in the morning, although he steals the occasional glance at it as he works. There is something of a greenhouse in the Citadel where King Regis used to like to take his tea in the afternoon. Prompto remembers relaxing in there with Noctis every once in a while, especially in the colder months. There were plenty of lilies in there. Noctis did, in fact, like to look at them when he was lost in thought.

“Al-stroe-mer-i-a,” he mumbles to himself, wondering if Noctis even knew he had a favorite flower.

~***~

By the grace of the gods, nobody thinks to ask him where he’s going until he’s just about out the door the following morning. Gladio trails after him with a coffee cup in hand just as soon as they finish breakfast and says, “Where’s Aranea heading with you?”

If Gladio had asked him this last night, Prompto wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye and lie. Crouched over as he is now, lacing up his boots, he keeps his eyes trained on the task at hand as he says, “Wherever the wind blows, I guess. I’ll send you a postcard.”

Gladio snorts into his coffee and watches him go. Ignis, who is sitting outside on the front steps, enjoying the morning air, gives him a small wave as he passes. Prompto wishes them both well and rushes off to the gas station, where Aranea promised to pick him up in ten.

He immediately finds her there when he arrives, filling up the tank of a sporty red motorcycle. Prompto is more of a car person, so he has no idea what it’s called, but he whistles appreciatively at it all the same.

Aranea grins at him and returns the gas nozzle to its rack. “I’m glad you could make it, blondie.”

“You were right,” he says, hiking his bag’s strap a little higher up his shoulder. He can feel the knife Ignis gave him strapped to his ankle and wonders how long it’s going to take him to get used to its sudden presence. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Noct.”

“Does that include freezing to death?” she asks, eyeing up his regular Crownsguard attire, “because other than the boots, I don’t think you’re dressed appropriately for the weather.”

Aranea herself is already decked out in her leather snowsuit. Given how chilly it is this morning, nobody seems to find her getup odd.

“My winter gear is in my bag.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him and then hands him a helmet. “Do your friends know we’re heading to Niflheim?”

“…No.”

“I see,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t pass judgement on him beyond giving him a quick wink. Then she slips on her helmet and straddles her bike.

Prompto tries to get comfortable when they eventually hit the road, sitting behind Aranea with his arms wrapped around her waist. Normally, he would be thrilled to be this close to a girl, but the overbearing weight of guilt in the pit of his stomach makes him feel vaguely sick. Maybe he should’ve told the guys he was going to Niflheim? Maybe he should’ve left them a note, something they could read after he’d gone?

Maybe he shouldn’t be going at all?

But he pushes down his creeping insecurities by the time they reach Aranea’s ship, which is parked in an open field not too far from a small herd of grazing spiracorns. There are about eight armoured men loading crates into the back of her ship, but their uniforms no longer bear the arms of the Niflheim empire. Among the crew, Prompto spots Biggs Callux in his white military trench coat and Wedge Kincaid in his complimentary black getup, both barking out orders on how everything should be stored. When Prompto approaches, they each immediately pause to offer him a smile and a quick handshake.

“Pleasure to see you again, lad,” Wedge says. Prompto recalls only meeting the two men once before, back at the Vesperpool, so he’s glad that they remember him. “You’re just what we need right now.”

“We’re glad you could lend us a hand,” Biggs adds.

Prompto glances aside at Aranea, recalling Gladio’s comment about ‘business’ and wondering if he’s somehow missing something. “I’m…glad I could make it, too?”

“I haven’t told him yet,” Aranae says to her subordinates as she breezes past them into the cargo hold. She waves Prompto in after her. “I didn’t want him to feel obligated to come just for our sake.”

“I would always be happy to help you,” Prompto says as he scampers up the ramp after her, somewhat wounded that she didn’t think to ask him earlier. “I still owe you for the last time you saved my ass.”

“Hold that thought until you hear what we need you for.” She continues on to the far end of the hold where the passengers are supposed to strap themselves in, then she unhooks the netting under one of the benches nailed to the hull and pulls out a satchel. Rummaging through it for a moment, she finally produces a file and flips it open, pulling out a small photograph. “Here.”

Taking the photograph, Prompto gives it a quick look over. It’s a snapshot of a young man, perhaps no more than thirty years old, standing in front of a white wall with a rather severe expression on his face. Though Prompto has never seen this _particular_ man in person or in the papers before, he’s seen enough of his own face to immediately recognize what must be Verstael Besithia in his youth.

Even knowing that he’s a clone, Prompto is struck by the man’s resemblance to him. Tugging impulsively on a few stands of his hair, he wonders if his own will be that white in ten or so years. Will he also look half as pissed in every picture? More importantly, will he completely lose his marbles and turn into something of a homicidal maniac keen on using human infants for his diabolical experiments? Only time will tell, he supposes…

Watching him tug on his hair, Aranea grins at him and says, “Did you know that Besithia started his research in genetic engineering and cloning long before he decided to use his clones for magitek? He published this paper on altering the gene for male pattern baldness and other little peculiarities of the human condition earlier on in his career. I imagine he implemented this work in you, because supposedly his hair was never quite as golden.”

Wonderful. So he won’t go bald someday. Does that mean he won’t go bonkers either? That’s the _real_ million gil question…

“Thanks, I guess,” he sighs, handing it back to her. “ _Sooo_ …is there a reason you’re carrying around a photograph of good old ‘dad,’ or were you just too shy to ask me for one of my own?”

He doesn’t know who he surprises more with that question, Aranea or himself. Thankfully, Aranea gets a good enough laugh out of it that Prompto doesn’t immediately pivot on his heel and make a run for it. It takes her a couple of seconds to compose herself before she gives him something of a sad look and says, “Hold onto that sense of humour, blondie. We’re going to need it in the dark days ahead of us.”

Now that she’s sobered them both up again, she continues her little spiel. “My men and I returned to that same magitek production facility after our first fiasco there. Even though no new soldiers have been produced since Ardyn pretty much hit the self-destruct button on Niflheim, the number of magitek that tried to jump us was astronomical.”

“Okay,” Prompto says, trying to figure out where she’s going with this. “I’m pretty good at crowd control with my firearms, but somehow I think you could do better than me.”

Aranea quirks the corner of her mouth in sympathy and gives him a friendly thump on the shoulder with her fist. “Stop selling yourself short, kid. But no—that’s not why we need you.”

“Then I have absolutely no idea how else I could help you.”

She holds up her finger for silence and then continues. “We were able to hack into one of the security consoles before we split and looked over the commands for the last two months. Everything was still logged, including your little journey through the facility. Did you know that the infantry wasn’t even entirely deployed back then? If it _had_ been, you would’ve been swarmed long before I got to you.”

He _did_ get swarmed, although he’s never been trapped behind enemy lines before, so he has no idea how many troops he should’ve encountered in the first place. This has been the first and only war he’s ever participated in.

Scratching the side of his neck, Prompto puzzles over this for a moment. “I mean…the facility flagged me as a ‘compromised unit’ and marked me for ‘retrieval’ instead of outright destruction. Maybe that’s why they were going easy on me?”

“Interesting theory. However, we got a definitive answer when we looked at what commands were given to some of the troops—but before I delve into that, I think you might find it interesting to know that the majority of magitek stationed at the facility were some of the very first soldiers to be created. These things are freakishly resilient when they aren’t being shot at on a daily basis, which is just one of the many reasons why the Emperor agreed to phase out live troops for magitek.”

Prompto gives a low whistle. That meant there were magitek as old as he is still wandering around the facility. They fought quite ferociously, given their age.

“This picture,” Aranea continues, giving said photograph a small shake for emphasis, “was taken inside the facility the day it opened and was used to log Verstael’s facial biometrics in the system. What we discovered is that the reason most of the magitek troopers kept well out of your way was because they were old enough to have this face— _your_ face still on record.”

Prompto blinks at her, completely blindsided by that revelation. “…They thought _I_ was Verstael?”

“Correct,” she replies, grinning. He can finally see why his being there would be such a boon for them. “Now, I’m not the most tech savvy person when it comes to this sort of thing, but Wedge seems to think that the newer models are receiving their commands from a different security terminal in the facility, one that only has Verstael’s older biometrics on file. One of our objectives is to find it and destroy it to remove some of the additional heat while we work.”

“What are your other objectives?” Prompto asks.

Aranea winks at him, a gentle indication that he’s unfortunately not on the need-to-know list. However, she tosses him something of a bone when she says, “Someone on your side of the war recently hired us to retrieve any non-daemonified tech that could be utilized against all the things that go bump in the night. It’s going to take us a while to figure out what could be of use to us and then a little longer than that to transport out what we need. If you’re willing to stay with us until we resolve the security issue, that would be greatly appreciated.”

Of course, he’s not going to say no to that. If he could keep these people alive and unharmed while he does his own work, then with them is exactly where he needs to be right now, at least until Noct returns.

“Do you think looking like Verstael will help me access any of his locked files?” Prompto asks. He’d found a few stray notes and recordings during his last visit, but he doubts Verstael left absolutely everything just laying around like that.

“It might,” she replies, “but Verstael also has his retinal and voice biometrics in the system. I’ve heard that even identical twins don’t have the same network of blood vessels in their retinas, so you will likely fail an eye scan. As for his voice, he supposedly damaged his vocal cords at a young age, long before he started producing magitek. That’s also going to complicate things for you, but my guys are going to help you get the information you need however they can.”

“Thank you.”

“So,” Aranea tilts her head to one side, eyes alight with mischief. “Does this mean you’re coming with us?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Perfect.” She glances at the bag slung over his shoulder. “Then put on your winter gear and strap yourself in. Take off is in fifteen.”

He gives her a small mock salute and tosses his bag onto the bench as she replaces the satchel under the netted shelf and wanders off to the cockpit. Slipping into his gear, he watches as a set of snowmobiles and her motorcycle are rolled into the cargo hold before the back hatch slowly swings shut. No turning back now, he thinks. He’s in this for the long haul.

He can feel his heart begin to race a little as he eventually takes a seat on the bench and straps himself in. He wonders for the third and final time if he should fire off a quick text to Ignis or Gladio to tell them where he’s headed, but he immediately banishes the thought. There’s no point in worrying them now, especially when he’s made up his mind. He’s not leaving Niflheim until he uncovers everything Verstael knows about the Crystal.

He refuses to return to Lestallum empty-handed.

In the coming days, however, he’ll wish he would’ve told them where to find him.

~***~

In the rising afternoon heat, shielded by a canopy from the glaring sun and masked by the glamor of an old market clerk, Ardyn watches the two Crownsguards work away at their midday meal in the adjacent cafe, although neither one of them seems to have much of a stomach for food at the moment.

Guilt will do that to you, he supposes.

“Where do you think he’s headed?” Gladiolus Amicitia remarks, the brawny shield of the latest usurper king. Ardyn will admit that it’s strange to see him so downtrodden, but humility is a good look on just about anyone these days. In fact, it pleases Ardyn more than he could possibly describe knowing how rotten the man must feel after allowing their young companion to wander off into danger so recently after losing their last charge.

Ignis Scientia, who still seems to be struggling with his fork and knife, sighs in the way a man only can when he’s suffering from the deepest of regrets and says, “Somewhere he feared we’d object to.”

“Niflheim?”

“Perhaps.”

The answer is ‘yes’. The first magitek production facility, to be more precise. Ardyn knows the hour that Aranea Highwind’s ship will land and where her crew will make camp and what her first target will be the following day. He knows _everything_ of what she and her merry band of misfits are up to, and he’s already decided how successful he will allow them to be. After all, it doesn’t really matter what she steals. Once the night eternal is upon them, nothing will save humanity from the suffering it is due.

“Where in Niflheim?” Gladiolus continues. He picks up his glass of water and rotates it slowly, carefully chasing the chunk of ice inside along the rim. “Zegnautus Keep?”

“I certainly hope not.” Ignis carefully moves his fork over a slice of meat and makes a quick stab at it. He doesn’t hit it dead centre, but he’s close enough. Getting better every day, the dear thing. “…You should have gone with him.”

Gladiolus looks pained by his remark, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve argued over this matter. Even so, he doesn’t retaliate. Instead, he says, “I know…It’s just, we’ve both been where he is right now, doubting our ability to help Noct and wanting so badly to make ourselves better for him. Going it alone for a few days helps to bring things into focus. Besides, Aranea promised to call me if she ever requires backup, and you need me—”

“—less than he does,” Ignis quickly interjects. There’s no venom in his voice, but Gladiolus still looks mildly abashed. “I know you somehow think Noctis will need me most of all when he returns, but Prompto is so much stronger than you’ve given him credit for. He’s grown a great deal during this trip.”

“Which is why you should have a little faith in him.”

Ardyn’s lips twist into a bemused smile. Not _one_ of them is strong enough to serve the usurper king, but perhaps they will be once Noctis returns. Ardyn will be delighted to help them prepare. After all, he promised Noctis he would keep them the very _best_ of company in his absence.

He eavesdrops a while longer, just enough to ascertain that they won’t be riding off to their companion’s rescue any time soon. Then he swaps his glamour with that of a much younger man and makes his way through the stalls, taking in the myriad of colours and aromas until he reaches his next destination.

Despite the thousands of years he’s spent on this planet, he remembers what life was like when he was Prompto’s age. Though he knew even then that he was meant to be something quite divine, he still indulged in his little sins, wholly enjoying many a night of good music, dance, and drink. It’s a stark contrast to how the young Argentum spends his time. In fact, in all the years that Ardyn’s spied on Noctis and his friends, he’s never once seen the boy drunk or debauched. The poor, stupid thing, so self-deprecating and insecure...he never seems to notice the many eyes that trail after him whenever he passes or how constantly he's coveted by those to whom he will forever remain unattainable. Ardyn imagines Prompto would never want for company if only he would open his eyes and see the crowd of admirers slowly closing in around him.

Ardyn smiles again, thinking back to the more intimate evenings of his own youth, of how splendid his company was or how easy the conversation flowed. Almost as easy as the wine, if he recalls correctly.

Perusing the wines until he comes across a good merlot, Ardyn purchases one that he knows Verstael would have appreciated. He suspects Prompto will share his father’s tastes, among other things. How delightful it will be to educate the young man on their wealth of similarities.

Tucking the bottle under his arm, Ardyn nods his head in thanks to the clerk and turns away, whistling as he goes. He has a ride to catch.

And then a boy.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Man, I _love_ Ardyn. He's such a fun villain. So powerful and clever, yet so goddamn dramatic _all_ the frigg'n time...
> 
> Anyway, now that everything is underway, the chapters are going to get a bit longer. Prompto has quite the adventure waiting for him in Niflheim. Thank you for continuing to read this! I hope you enjoy what I have in store.


	3. An invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope everyone had a wonderful weekend, even if you didn't celebrate Canada Day or the 4th of July. Here's a little update to brighten your work week.

~***~

It takes them the better part of the morning to reach the magitek production facility. Without any windows to gawk out of, and with the temperature inside the ship dipping a few degrees as they venture further into the mountains, Prompto finds himself nodding off to sleep halfway through the trip. He wakes just as the ship comes to a shuddering halt on the ground, his sleep-addled brain wondering if Noct took this opportunity to sneak in a nap as well. It takes him a moment then to remember that he isn’t traveling with his usual crew and that if Noct is, in fact, napping right now, he’s taking the Mother of All Naps somewhere far, far away and in the worst possible company known to mankind.

Prompto tries not to let that thought sour his mood as he unstraps himself from his seat and grabs his bag. Everyone seems to already know what they’re supposed to be doing, so he offers to carry a few boxes down the ramp for them and then moseys on after Aranea as she steps out into the glaring white wonderland of Niflheim.

Not much has changed since he was here last. They’ve landed on a plateau of ice and snow above a long and treacherous slope speckled with coniferous trees, and in the valley far below, Prompto can make out a small, black speck, which he thinks he recognizes as one of the central buildings for the facility. Thankfully, there doesn’t appear to be any activity down below, which is why he supposes Aranea chose this as their landing site.

He trails after Aranea as she rounds the ship. Up ahead is a large, open hangar built into the face of a towering cliff. Her men are scrambling to transfer everything inside, although when Prompto deposits his first set of boxes and turns around to collect more, Biggs quickly waves him off with a small smile.

“Don’t worry about them. They’ve got this down to an art,” Aranea explains. Then she nods her head at a door at the far back of the hangar. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Said tour only takes about ten minutes tops since there isn’t too much to see. As this was once one of the few entirely human security outposts at the abandoned facility, it houses a rather large barrack with 20 bunks, a small medical station, a communal washroom, and a main security observatory that doubles as an eating area. It’s in the observatory that they find two of Aranea’s other soldiers sitting before a large computer console set in front of a wide window overlooking the valley. They both pause in their work to salute her before returning their attention to the computer screens.

“This is what we know about the area so far,” Aranea says as she leads Prompto over a large diagram pinned to the wall just to left of the window. It appears to be a map of the facility, one that looks hand drawn, albeit nicely, with each building numbered. “There are fifteen buildings dotted along the valley that altogether make up this _one_ magitek production facility. Some are simply factories, but most are laboratories. Currently, we’re stationed here—” She points to a small square at the far west side of the valley simply labelled ‘0.1’ “—which is the outpost closest to the three buildings Verstael is supposed to have conducted most of his personal work. In fact, his rooms are located in the third building along this chain. It takes about an hour by snowmobile to get there, weather permitting.”

“How soon am I allowed to visit the facility?” Prompto asks, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket to check the time. It’s 11:34 right now, which isn’t too late in the day. If they leave soon, he’ll have a few hours to poke around the place before nightfall.

“As soon as we’ve finished unloading everything, we’ll be on our way.”

“Ma’am?” One of the women sitting at the computer removes her headset and glances over at Aranea. “Carmine and Jan have just confirmed their arrival at number 7. They believe they can make it to 14 by 20:00.”

“That was quick,” Aranea remarks. “Tell them to call us back by 19:00. Biggs and I will head out with the ship to grab them as soon as we’re done here.” Turning back to Prompto, she says, “We’ve estimated that it should take at least day to make it to the far west side of the facility by snowmobile. Tomorrow, we’re going to try to clear out another outpost nearer to that end.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not at the moment. Once we decide to make our move on buildings 14 and 15, it’ll be all hands on deck. In the meantime, Wedge and the rest of my crew are going to help you unearth whatever we can on the Crystal.”

Prompto’s perfectly fine with avoiding any MT confrontations until absolutely necessary, so he nods in thanks and then retreats to the barracks to claim a bunk.

Because he’s accustomed to traveling light, he doesn’t have much of anything to unpack while he waits. He does, however, now have the time to address something rather unsavory, which is the question of his continued access to Noct’s armiger. Back in Lestallum, when he could spare a few hours to practice at the shooting range, he _thought_ it felt as though his guns materialized a second later than usual. Holding out his hand now and summoning his Lion Heart, it seems to take a fraction of a second longer than that to access his pistol, which pretty much confirms his fears.

Setting the pistol down on the mattress, Prompto crouches down to rummage through his bag for the holster he bought late last night after Ignis gifted him the Alstroemeria. It was a bit tricky finding something large enough for his Lion Heart, but thankfully Lestallum’s central market is an eclectic world of wonders. He affixes the holster to his belt, setting it over his right hip, and then tightens the lower strap around his thigh before slotting his pistol into place. Next, he summons one of the Rapidus SMGs he stole from the facility the last time he was in Niflheim and slings that over his back, keen to acclimatize to the added weight before he stumbles into his next firefight.

Aranea swings by the barracks to check up on him before too long, tossing a protein bar at him for his lunch. Then she takes one hard look at him and says, “Doesn’t your crew have a pocket dimension for all that?”

“You mean the armiger?” he asks. “It belongs to Noct. We’ve been having trouble accessing our weapons lately, so I thought I should get used to hauling these around everywhere.”

“Verstael did a little research into pocket dimensions many years ago. I don’t know how far he got with it, but he provided me with the one that I use for my Stoss Spear.” She gives him another once over, eyes lingering on the SMG peeking over his shoulder. “It’s ridiculously small, but we could try tossing in one of your heftier weapons, if you’d like.”

“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

“Suit yourself. We’re heading out now if you’re ready.”

He glances down at his bag one last time, staring at the pile of sweaters still neatly folded up inside. Admittedly, he’s none too thrilled about freezing his ass off again, so the sooner they finish up here, the better.

“I’m good to go,” he replies.

Aranea nods, and together they make their way back to the hangar. Wedge and a few of Aranea’s other soldiers are already waiting for them there, lingering beside three snowmobiles. They double up on the snowmobiles, each of them with a soldier, although Prompto defers the driving to his designated travel buddy. Given how many times he’d almost crashed the Regalia back in Insomnia, he doesn’t think Aranea would appreciate it too much if he accidentally put any of her equipment out of commission on day one. 

The trip down the slope to building 1 is uneventful. Even when they reach the chainmail gate surrounding the facility and trigger a response from the ten magitek infantrymen lingering by the main entrance, they don’t encounter the sort of trouble Aranea was expecting. She remarks as much after Prompto fells four of the MTs with his Lion Heart and her soldiers quickly polish off the rest before they’ve even rolled to a complete stop.

“It’s like night and day,” she says as they dismount. “It took us fifteen minutes the last time we were here just to clear a path to the door.”

Prompto scans the building and the adjacent security towers for any other signs of activity. He sees nothing of concern, although he does make note of the many cameras trained on their small group. He wonders how he missed those during his last misadventure in Niflheim.

Wedge approaches the control panel beside the door, which they apparently busted open during their last visit, and punches in a code. The door then shudders to life, sliding open with a groan. “398398,” Wedge shares with him. “Remind me to write down the other codes for you later, lad.”

Prompto nods, although he’s only half listening as he stares down the long corridor on the other side of the door at the three magitek sprinting their way and squeezes off a few shots. He blows their heads clean off before anyone else can react, a nice little triple attack for the All Time Highest Scores list in the back of his mind.

As the armored husks crumple to the floor, Prompto slips his Lion Heart back into his holster and takes a moment to re-evaluate what he thinks about having its constant weight against his hip. Despite his initial annoyance, he’s surprised with how _good_ it now feels to have it there. It kind of reminds him of those weird outlaw movies Gladio liked to watch, the ones with the lawless desert towns and the showdowns at high noon and the gunslingers who flaunted their weapons practically everywhere. Maybe Prompto should get into the habit of blowing the non-existent smoke off the barrel of his pistol like they did? He bets Gladio would get a kick out of his new victory pose.

Their little group presses onward, encountering only a handful of other MTs before they reach their destination. Said destination turns out to be a room jam packed with 50-odd shelves housing what must be hundreds upon _hundreds_ of boxes of hand-typed files. Prompto’s jaw just about hits the floor when he realizes there isn’t a computer terminal in sight, just a few desks and this mountain of paperwork…

“Dear gods,” he breathes.

Aranea cringes in sympathy. “Sorry, shortcake. Until we can get into Verstael’s computer, all I’ve got for you now are the literal hard copies.”

Grabbing a box on the shelf nearest to him, Prompto pulls it out just far enough to glance inside. He supposes he’s lucky that he doesn’t have to deal with an archive of audio files because at least he can skim a piece of paper in a couple of seconds to determine if it’s valuable to him or not. This way, he doesn’t have to listen to his ‘father’ drone on for hours on end, which would be literal torture.

“Keep your gun up,” Aranea reminds him as her men begin fanning out across the room.

Together, they do a quick sweep between the shelves, looking for stray magitek. They don’t encounter anything, although Prompto finds a few of the aisles in a curious state of a disarray, boxes pulled out and rummaged through before having been haphazardly stuffed back into the shelves. When Prompto glances questioningly behind himself at Wedge, the officer says, “We’ve been through here ourselves once before, digging for intel.”

Somehow knowing _that_ makes Prompto feel a little less irritated about this whole situation. Aranea’s people have already had to sort through this mess for their own mission, so at least they can sympathize with how he feels right now.

Even better, he soon discovers that Aranea is gifting him a helper when Prompto rounds the next aisle and spots two soldiers engaged in a match of rock-paper-scissors. The loser curses under his breath and then turns to Prompto, pulling off his helmet before offering his hand for a shake. “The name’s Serge. I’m going to lend you a hand today while the others sod off to gods-know-where.”

“Hey now,” the other soldier chuckles. “It’s not so bad. You could’ve pulled the short straw this morning and been stuck outside with Carmine.”

Serge, who’s a thirty-something, dark-haired, tough-as-nails looking guy with a nasty burn mark on the right side of his face, suddenly looks as though, yeah, he might not really mind wasting the day away in here instead of freezing his ass off on the other side of the facility.

Aranea joins them shortly, addressing Prompto when she says, “Bar the door once we leave so no magitek wander in. I’ll knock when we return.”

“Are you going to use a secret knock?” Prompto asks, though more as a joke than anything else.

“The secret _is_ the knock. You’ll know we aren’t magitek because that’s one of the many things they can’t do.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

Aranea pauses for a moment as if giving his question serious thought, then punches him lightly on the arm. To Serge she says, “If you hear a knock, you damn well better open the door.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She shifts her attention back to Prompto, smiling despite her irritation with him. “I hope you have fun with all the papercuts I know you’re going to get.”

Prompto smiles beatifically at her in return but bites back another witty remark as she and her other men to venture back into the corridor, wandering off to complete whatever today’s objective is for her semi-covert operation.

As soon as they’re out the door, Serge grabs a chair from one of the desks against the far wall and drags it all the way back to the entrance, leaning it up against the door in such a way that the knob can no longer turn downward. “That should do it, aye?” he says as he wipes the imaginary dust off his hands.

Prompto nods. Of course, any magitek soldiers could potentially blow the door to kingdom come if they were _really_ that keen on getting in here, but at least that would alert them to any unexpected visitors.

“So, about this research of yours…” Serge says, “Lady A mentioned something about the Lucian Crystal?”

“That’s right. We’re looking for _anything_ that mentions the Crystal, the Ring of Lucii, or the True King.”

“Any idea under what year General Verstael would’ve filed this information?”

“Not a clue.”

“Right...” Serge glances over his shoulder at the far end of shelves behind him. He looks a little as though he just sucked on a lemon. “I guess I’ll start at that end?”

Prompto knows how much this situation bites, but, hey, at least they get to suffer through it together? He jabs his thumb at the opposite side of the room. “And I guess I’ll start over there…”

They offer one another a weak smile and then wander off to their respective ends. It’s a behemoth of a task they’ve been saddled with, although Prompto hopes they find something useful without having to dig through every single last box.

But knowing his luck, that’s unlikely to be the case.

~***~

Five or so hours later, Prompto wishes he were back at that pitiful library in Lestallum. At least there, he could bring a fruity drink and a snack in with him from the nearby café. The old custodian that took care of the place didn’t really mind if Prompto wanted to eat in there, just as long as he wasn’t munching on some kind of greasy finger food while handling the books.

When his stomach starts to growl, Prompto pushes himself up from his seat on the floor and stretches his arms high above his head. His right foot feels like it might be falling asleep, so he gives it a good shake and then slowly walks to one end of his aisle to get the blood flowing in his legs again. So far, he’d found a whole bunch of old reports on battle maneuvers and mysterious weather phenomena and something that looked that a tripped up tank with too many cannons, but his search is still coming up dry on the Crystal. He feels as though it’s probably going to take him days, if not _weeks_ , to uncover anything of interest, although he tries _really_ hard not to be depressed over what is shaping up to be an extended stay in this glacial hellscape.

It’s as he’s trying to psyche himself up to start on another box that something interesting finally happens, although it’s regrettably not a breakthrough on his work. Rather, it’s the sound of a box crashing to the ground about three or four aisles over, which gives him quite the start. Alarmed, he tries to peak through a gap in the shelf beside him to check if Serge is the one making a mess over there, but, seeing no one, he realizes something might have tipped over from the last time Aranea’s crew tore through this place.

Handing hovering over his holster, Prompto walks to the end of his aisle and glances at the door. The chair is still propped up against it, so he relaxes marginally and searches for the source of the sound. Sure enough, he finds a box tipped over on the ground four aisles down, its contents scattered everywhere. He could leave this mess as it is because he knows he’ll get to this row eventually, but the part of his brain that likes to keep things nice and tidy prompts him to crouch down and gather everything back up again.

By some small mercy, what he can see of the box’s contents makes for a somewhat fascinating story. He notices a heavily redacted note on Angelgard, the island Prompto recalls seeing off the coast of Golden Quay, and some mention of a monster the Lucian’s called ‘Adagium’—which is actually a really funny name for a monster, when you think about it. Unless he’s mistaken, ‘adagium’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘proverb’, meaning that the Lucians thought there was a ‘general truth’ somehow lingering all the way out there in isolation on the sea.

“Feeling homesick, were we?”

“Hm?” Prompto hums in confusion, wondering why Serge suddenly sounds remarkably like a certain someone else as he turns to face his companion.

He does, in fact, find Serge staring at him from the other end of the aisle, although it’s unfortunate that he isn’t alone. Standing in front of Serge, though facing Prompto, is none other than the insufferable Chancellor of Niflheim, Ardyn Izunia, who has a _lot_ of nerve dropping in here with that damn smile on his face. The man has a hand resting on his cocked hip, as if he were simply dropping by for a little chat between old friends, although his posture immediately changes in the split second it takes for Serge to charge him with his stun baton. With an admittedly majestic whirl of his coat, Ardyn lands something of a casual spin-kick to the corner of Serge’s jaw, knocking the other man flat on his back. And just like that, Prompto’s one and only ally here is down for the count.

If Prompto hadn’t been so completely baffled by Ardyn’s unexpected presence, he would’ve acted sooner. But better late than never, he supposes, as he drops the file in his hands and whips out his Lion Heart. While Ardyn’s back is still turned, Prompto buries two bullets where he assumes the man’s shriveled heart must be before he remembers what happened the last time he shot Ardyn, which was that he picked himself right up off the ground and walked away as though there was someone else he urgently needed to burden with his presence before the night was through.

Predictably, Prompto’s attack does little more than give Ardyn a bit of a jolt. The man then turns to face him, adjusts his hat, and says, “Try to be mindful of your ammunition, my boy. Do you really believe it’s still infinite?”

As little as he cares for Ardyn’s pearls of wisdom, the man’s question gives Prompto pause. The only reason he has unlimited bullets is because of some hand-wavy magical quality of Noct’s armiger—which, of course, he can’t exactly rely on anymore. As such, there was a very real probability that he might run out of ammo someday soon, and he couldn’t think of a worse place for that to happen than in the middle of a Niflheim military facility.

Even so, he keeps both hands wrapped around his pistol, barrel trained on Ardyn’s chest as the man approaches, all swaggering charm and coy smiles, like he has the most delicious secret he’s just _dying_ to share.

“Where’s the Crystal?” Prompto grits out as he takes a half step back, more on reflex than anything else. Technically, the shortest route to the door is through Ardyn, but even if Prompto felt confident in squeezing past the other man in a mad dash for freedom, he wouldn’t feel comfortable hightailing it out of there without Serge. He just has to buy them a little time until Serge returns to consciousness, although who the hell knows when that will be.

“Do you really want me to tell you?” Ardyn asks, just as patronizing as ever, his rich, deep voice deceptively soft. “Once you have the answers to everything, how will you continue to demonstrate your resourcefulness to your companions?”

Trust Ardyn to zero in on Prompto insecurities about his contributions to the team. But Prompto doesn’t really want to revisit his usual lack of self-confidence right now, so he continues to glare at Ardyn and says, “All I care about is getting Noct back.”

“Then you _would_ like a hint after all." Ardyn sounds entirely too pleased with that. He finally stops in his advance, but there’s only a few feet left between them; Prompto tries to do a quick mental calculation on how close Ardyn would need to be to smack him in the face with his foot like he did with Serge, but Ardyn’s pretty limber for a guy his age, so who knows? “I would be delighted to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Prompto snaps. He’s honestly surprised with how resolute he sounds right now because he’s starting to remember a few key details from their last encounter, such as the fact that Ardyn was bleeding black ichor from his eyes and ears and mouth, like some kind of daemon parading in human flesh. He’s not just the Big Bad of Eos. He’s _really bad_ , like all the way down to the bone, and powerful enough to entertain whatever dark thoughts are percolating inside his brain. “I…I can figure this out on my own.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.” Slowly, as if dealing with a skittish animal—which, to be fair, is precisely what Prompto is beginning to feel like here—Ardyn reaches into his vest pocket and produces what Prompto’s puzzled brain initially identifies as a business card. “I don’t think you will be able to suss out the information you need to solve this little mystery without a considerable amount of hand-holding.”

And with that, Ardyn flicks his card into Prompto’s face.

Since Prompto isn’t as apt as Gladio is at catching small projectiles mid-air, he closes his eyes to hopefully avoid receiving a papercut somewhere _truly_ unfortunate and stumbles back a step. It’s really too bad that he forgot about the box he was in the process of packing up prior to Ardyn’s visit, because his subsequent misfortune is tripping over it and landing hard enough on his ass that he loses his grip on his pistol. Before he can really think about what he’s doing, he wills it back into the armiger, his usual knee-jerk reaction whenever one of his weapons is knocked out of reach.

After the calamity has ended and Prompto opens his eyes again, he realizes Ardyn is suddenly standing _so_ much closer to him. Close enough, in fact, that Prompto only has a split-second to register Ardyn’s cryptic remark of _“Don’t be late”_ before his heel connects sharply with Prompto’s face.

Then the whole world goes dark.

~***~

He doesn’t know how long he’s out for, but Prompto comes to with a raging headache. After a great deal of effort, he manages to sit upright on the pile of paper that broke his fall, back smarting where he landed on his SMG. Then he rubs his left brow gingerly, making note of the tender bump Ardyn left him with right before fleeing the scene of the crime. The bastard also left his stupid business card on Prompto’s lap, although he quickly realizes it isn’t actually a business card when he sees what’s hand-written on one side:

_Room X3-15_

_Tomorrow, 21:00 sharp_

_Formal wear appreciated_

Prompto flips it over to see if anything else is written there, but the rest of the card is blank. He takes a moment to puzzle over what it _is_ exactly he’s looking at here—an invitation, obviously, but to what is anyone’s guess—although he finds it difficult to think over the pounding in his head.

Eventually, it occurs to him that the pounding _isn’t_ coming from inside his head.

Someone is hammering on the door.

Startled, he stuffs the card into his coat pocket, pushes himself up off the floor, and scrambles down the aisle to remove the chair. When he finally opens the door, he finds one of Aranea’s soldiers on the other side. “We’ve got to get going,” the woman says, voice tight with urgency.

Further down the corridor, Prompto can hear people running their way— _and_ the familiar creak of armor that usually accompanies the appearance of an Iron Giant.

It must be dark outside already.

“But Serge—” Prompto begins, glancing over his shoulder at his fallen companion, knowing that it’s going to be absolute _hell_ dragging someone almost Gladio’s size out off here. By some stroke of luck, though, Serge appears to be in the process of rousing himself from his stupor, rubbing his jaw tenderly as he snatches his stun baton off the floor and staggers to his feet.

“What are you doing taking a nap in a place like this?” the other soldier snaps at Serge. “Move your arse!”

Serge looks like he would love nothing more than to shove his baton somewhere the sun doesn’t shine in response to that, but he settles for grumbling miserably under his breath as they join their companions on their mad dash to the front entrance, with Aranea bringing up the rear. Once they’re outside again, Prompto notices how utterly pleased she looks. He’s somewhat glad that today’s endeavour was fruitful for at least one of them.

Hopping backwards onto his designated snowmobile, Prompto mans the gun as they begin their race up the treacherous slope to the outpost. Many pockets of daemons appear along the trek, although thankfully these merely whizz past them with the rest of the scenery, too slow in materializing to present much of an obstacle. As such, their little group eventually glides into the hangar without a hitch, the main door slamming shut behind them before anything can amble in after them.

“The lights will keep them out,” Aranea says as she hops off her bike, cheeks rosy from the frigid air, eyes still shining with triumph.

Prompto dismounts slowly from his snowmobile and curls his arms around himself, trying to pat the warmth back into his limbs. As happy as he is that they made a clean getaway, his head is still throbbing and every bone in his body is beginning to ache. In fact, he also feels a little chillier than usual.

Aranea immediately takes note of his posture, pulling off her gloves as she approaches him. “You don’t look too hot, blondie.” When she’s finally close enough to spot the bruise, she stops short. “What the hell happened?”

“ _Ardyn_ ,” Prompto mutters, just as Serge steps up beside him and says, “An MT got the jump on us, ma’am.”

Prompto blinks at his companion in confusion. Serge stares right on back at him, similarly bewildered.

Aranea glances between them, frowning. “You guys were attacked? Didn’t you dummies bar the door like I told you to?”

“Did we?” Prompto muses aloud, because although he seems to remember removing a chair from the door, his head feels a bit fuzzy from the bump on his head and his impending fever. “I could’ve sworn that we did…”

“Then how did an MT get in there?” Serge asks, rubbing at his jaw again. Already, his bruise is turning the ugliest shade of purple Prompto has ever seen. He’d be surprised if the guy didn’t lose a tooth after getting hit like that. “I guess it could’ve climbed in through an air vent.”

“It _wasn’t_ an MT,” Prompto sighs, shoving his hand into his coat pocket. “It was Ardyn. He gave me this…”

However, ‘ _this_ ’ turns out to be absolutely nothing when Prompto realizes his pocket is empty. He must have dropped the note when they were running for their lives out the door. Or maybe it flew out of his pocket while he was on the snowmobile. It sure was windy enough.

 _Or_ , you know…maybe he didn’t run into Ardyn after all?

“Okay,” he says, because he knows he can go a little bananas when his brain is completely fried by a fever. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s hallucinated while sick, although he would happily take a herd of multi-colored chocobos suddenly roosting in his bedroom over another imaginary encounter with Ardyn any day. “Maybe it was an MT after all…”

Aranea reaches out slowly to press the back of her hand against his forehead. He shudders at her touch, which feels about as cold as ice.

“You’re burning up,” she sighs, brow furrowed with concern. “Serge, grab some ice for your face and a curative for our friend here before he passes out.”

Knowing how scarce potions and antidotes are going to be soon if these daemon attacks continue to worsen across the globe, Prompto doesn’t feel too great about depleting her resources over something as stupid as a cold or flu. Leaning away from her touch, he says, “I’d rather try to ride this out the old fashioned way for now. If I’m not feeling better by the time you need me again, I’ll take you guys up on your offer.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Aranea mutters warmly. She glances over her shoulder at her men as they hastily stack boxes of supplies beside the hangar door. “The dark kind of crept up on us today. It’s not even 19:00 yet, and I still need to collect my men from the other side of the facility.”

“Do you think they’re okay?”

“If they made it to the other outpost that we’ve been eyeing lately, then probably. It’ll take me an hour by airship to reach them.” Turning back to him, Aranea gives him a stern look and says, “Wedge is in charge while I’m gone. If he decides to give you a potion, just shut up and take it, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then consider yourself dismissed,” she says, giving him a mock salute before jogging off to help her men transfer the supplies for the other outpost into her airship.

Prompto lingers there to watch her go, hoping she makes it to her people in time. He only moves once he feels someone tugging on his left coat sleeve, turning to find a soldier standing there with a clipboard in hand. The man escorts Prompto to the med station, where he goes over a quick checklist of Prompto’s symptoms, takes his temperature, and then sends him on his way with a pill to reduce his fever. Another soldier tracks Prompto down shortly to offer him a bottle of water and a bowl of some kind of broth, which serve as Prompto’s meal for the evening before he slips under the covers of his cot and finally conks out.

Before he nods off though, he wonders why his brain had to be cruel enough to dredge up his old thoughts and fears on Ardyn. He didn’t want to see the other man again, real or imagined, until Noctis was returned to them. Until then, Ardyn could take a hike for all he cared. His brain could too if it was going to continue pulling such nasty tricks on him.

Irritated, Prompto curls up on his side, body still aching, and tries to take a deep, relaxing breath.

Then the whole world goes blessedly dark again.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One of my favorite things about fighting Ardyn in the game is when he parries with such a casual slap of a kick to the face. He's got all this incredible power, but he enjoys putting people in their place with the simplest of gestures. I love it.


	4. Adagium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the further adventures of Prompto Argentum! In today's episode, everything continues to spiral ever downward for our hapless hero...

~***~

In the precious twilight moments of the day, just after the sun has dipped below the horizon, Ardyn can feel the daemons roiling beneath his skin.

It takes him a while to collect himself again, to wrangle his thoughts and feelings back into order by the time night has fully descended, but he would never equate this period of disequilibrium to a battle. It’s merely a transition, a shift in sensations, akin to the sudden succulence of meat after a cleansing sip of wine. It’s a palliative preparation for a certain kind of divinity spurned by the Six. A of ‘ _reawakening’_ of what serves as his soul, if you will.

It is usually then that his eternal hunger reaches a fever pitch.

When Verstael was still quite young, these twilight hours were most often when Ardyn would seek him out. How fortunate Ardyn would be if he managed to corner the other man in his own quarters, in the small room beyond their shared dining space, where Verstael would deign to sleep when he could no longer stave off his fatigue. However, when Ardyn glided through the door, as silent as the dead and perhaps just as uncaring, it was not uncommon to find Verstael sequestered at his desk, his smaller figure silhouetted against the screen. It was also not uncommon for Verstael to pay him little mind until Ardyn was practically upon him, though Verstael had a gift for tuning out the whole world when he allowed himself to be so lost in thought.

Even to this day, Ardyn thinks back quite fondly on those dark, sacred moments when Verstael would sit at his computer, already dressed down for the night, the bulk of his armor replaced with a simple robe. It was too easy to rest his hands on Verstael’s shoulders and, listening to the clatter of Verstael’s fingertips against the keyboard as he transformed his most secret thoughts into words, lean down to press his lips against Verstael’s neck just below his ear.

Always, Verstael would stiffen, warring with himself over the importance of continuing his work or capitulating to the hands that guided him to the bed. Ardyn learned early on that Verstael was not much of a sexual being, but the other man considered Ardyn enough of a close companion that he had no qualms in satiating his more primal urges, especially if it helped to convince Ardyn to share with him his most intimate knowledge of the Astrals and the Starscourge.

Theirs was the kind of relationship that worked better than most for the simple reason that it was sustained by logic rather than love.

And so, in _this_ precious twilight moment, Ardyn leans back in his seat at the dining table and glances up at the clock on the far wall. He thinks of Verstael’s little seed racing up the slope, Ardyn’s invitation no doubt already forgotten, and of the storm that is brewing in the distance. He has a feeling that they will both be disappointed tomorrow, but tomorrow is just another day. Ardyn can be patient. He’s waited two thousand years to set his revenge in motion, and he has another decade yet to go before he can see it fulfilled. Delaying this particular bit of business by a day or two hardly matters.

However long this might take him, he knows he will get _exactly_ what he wants in the end.

~***~

When Prompto wakes, his fever is broken.

His body still aches, and he’s too weak to wiggle his way out of the cocoon he’s made of his blanket, but at least he doesn’t feel like a living popsicle anymore. In fact, it feels kind of good to just open his eyes and watch the card game unfolding on the lower bunk beside him, to listen to Aranea’s soldiers crack jokes the way Prompto’s companions once did as they pretended to argue over the rules of their game. It makes him feel nostalgic, even if it hasn’t been too long since Noctis was taken from him.

One of the four soldiers squished together on the bunk is Serge. He glances at Prompto after he’s thrown down his cards in defeat and says, “Are you awake for real right now, mate?”

“Was I sleep-talking?” Prompto asks, immediately embarrassed. In his fevered hallucinations, he’s been known to sit up and chat with whoever’s around. Since Noctis was one of the few people that persisted in visiting him no matter the risk of contracting whatever nasty virus he was incubating, Prompto knows his friend has several recordings of his incoherent ramblings, including one where he proposed a hierarchy of the cutest creatures on the face of the planet.

Serge nods, though he doesn’t look as those he heard anything too amusing. “You sat up a couple of hours ago and mumbled something about ‘just one day’. Seemed a mite upset about it. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

Prompto shakes his head, though he _does_ have a vague recollection. And by ‘vague’, he means only the bare bones of his dream, nothing that makes too much sense. He was somewhere cold, which doesn’t surprise him, and Noct was there, though only briefly. They talked for a while, he thinks. There was also a woman, but he could only see her through his camera lens, and even then the light behind her was too bright to discern who she was. The _only_ thing he remembers clearly was what she said to him in the end: ‘ _Just one day.’_

With a shrug, Serge picks up the new cards dealt to him and fans them out in his hand. He scrutinizes them quietly for a moment and then says, “There’s no rush on getting out of bed today if you need a few more hours of sleep. It’s a blizzard outside, so we’re holed up in here until further notice. Are you still holding off on that potion or would you like one now?”

Prompto shakes his head again.

The solider on Serge’s left reaches down to snatch a thermos off the floor beside the bunk and tosses it onto the mattress beside Prompto’s hip. “Keep your fluids up, kid,” she says.

Slowly, Prompto extracts his arms from the warmth and security of his blanket and pushes himself upright. Somehow, the transition jars his head hard enough to alert him to the unholiest of migraines he’s ever suffered in all his life. He closes his eyes and rubs a hand against his temple, willing the marching band inside his head to simmer down for a while. Thank goodness he doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be today because he doesn’t know how he would walk straight without the help of a curative.

There’s more of yesterday’s broth in the thermos, which the soldiers continue to ply him with until he shoes them away to catch a few more hours of sleep. ‘A few more hours of sleep’ inadvertently turns into a little over twenty, but he wakes the following day feeling infinitely better. No odd dreams or hallucinations during his second slumber either, just a blessedly blank mind, free of migraines.

Overall, when he rolls out of bed, he thinks he’s off to a good start. Unfortunately, when he snatches his holster off the floor and finds it empty, his heart sinks. It then damn near plummets to the core of the planet when he reaches into the armiger and, experiencing something that he can only describe as a mental hiccup, pulls out his Quicksilver instead of his Lion Heart. He accidentally summons his Rebellion on his second attempt, though he immediately cycles back to the Quicksilver, which is really the next best pistol in his inventory.

“ _Damnit_ …” he mutters under his breath as he slips it into his hip holster, wondering what could’ve happened to the Lion Heart. He _knows_ he sent it back to the armiger, but maybe he did it wrong? He wasn’t exactly in his right mind two days ago, and there _was_ an artform to using the armiger, as he learned that one time Noctis failed to rematerialize a trout he experimentally tossed in there. However, they both highly suspected either Ignis or Gladio secretly summoned it back out to discourage Noctis from ever doing that again. Prompto couldn’t exactly blame them if they did. He doesn’t know how well they would’ve functioned on their road trip if everything in the armory started to smell like rotting fish.

Life takes another turn for the worse when he walks into the hangar and realizes Aranea and her airship are nowhere to be seen.

When another soldier, a red-headed woman with the name ‘Vance’ stitched over the breast pocket of her overcoat, sees Prompto’s baffled expression, she says, “Lady A and the rest of our crew are stuck at the other outpost. Apparently, an Iron Giant materialized right after they landed and gave the airship a good bashing.”

“Are we heading over there to help?” Prompto asks, hoping that a battered airship is the worst of their concerns.

“They’ve told us that they can manage on their own. Today, Captain Kincaid needs you to accompany us to number 3. Here—” she hands him a small, single-strap knapsack that Prompto slings across his back, although it takes him a moment to adjust the placement of his SMG beside it. He takes this opportunity to summon his Audax Blade and cram it in there, folded up, as well as his camera and cell phone. “We’ve given you five potions, two phoenix downs, a bottle of water, and a few snacks to keep you going. Do you think there’s anything else you might need?”

“No, thank you. This is already plenty.”

Vance smiles at him before she pulls on her helmet and hands a knapsack to another waiting solider.

By the time Wedge wanders into the hangar, everyone seems about ready to go. Prompto joins the Captain and six of his soldiers, Serge included, on their trip down to the third building, which, if he recalls correctly, is where Verstael had spent most of his time. As with yesterday, the opposition that greets them is a little lacklustre, just ten MTs and a hulking MA Veles, which Prompto wipes out with his bazooka before the battle has really begun. However, it’s with a small twinge of regret that he immediately returns said bazooka to the armiger as soon as the proverbial dust has settled, wondering where on the list it falls for weapons that will soon be inaccessible to him. It’s really too bad he just can’t haul everything around on his back.

After Wedge has punched in the access code for the door, he turns to hand Prompto a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it and skimming the numbers scribbled there, Prompto thinks about the barcode hidden under the armband around his left wrist and wonders why they haven’t asked him to open any doors yet.

When he looks back up at Wedge, the other man says, as if reading his mind, “We’d rather the facility _not_ trigger another en masse security response for your retrieval.”

“Oh…gotcha.”

“You’re with Serge again today,” the Captain continues as the doors slide open. “Keep your eyes peeled, lad.”

When Wedge says that he’s ‘with Serge,’ it turns out that he means ‘on patrol.’ Unlike the first building, they don’t have access to as many rooms, so Prompto’s personal quest is shifted to the backburner for the day. Wedge and one of his soldiers sequester themselves in a room full of computer consoles that are apparently on their list of things to hack today. He sends everyone else off in teams of two to look for other areas of interest, reminding them to rendezvous at the front entrance by 17:00 so that they can return to the outpost before sundown.

Even though he doesn’t have the opportunity to continue his own search today, Prompto is totally down to roam the corridors with Serge, who reminds him of somewhat older, happier Gladio, kind of the way his companion was pre-crisis in Altissa. They talk shop about firearms as they wander through the facility, cutting down the occasional MT while testing the lock on any door that looks like it might be hiding something of importance, even though they don’t actually find anything of the sort. In fact, it turns out that Serge is phenomenally good at picking electrical locks with a small, handheld device stashed away in his pack, although they run into a bit of a snag when they come across a section of the building where the power is down.

“Do you think it’s worth it to continue?” Prompto asks, staring down the corridor. It ends in a T-intersection and a window, so it isn’t exactly dark enough to stop them dead in their tracks, but Serge’s instrument is going to be of little use to them here.

Serge glances over his shoulder, back the way they came, and idly scratches at the bruise on his jaw. By some miracle of the gods, he did _not_ lose any teeth, although he’s still clearly annoyed by the ugly bump on his face. Prompto can sympathize with him. Any time he smiles, he irritates the scar over his left brow.

Eventually, Serge shrugs. “Why not?”

Prompto smiles, irritating said scar and automatically raising his hand to rub at it as he glances at the door on their left. There’s nothing special written on the label beside the door, so he’s assuming it’s just another random office or a maintenance closet. Despite his disinterest in the room itself, it’s number, ‘X3-01,’gives him pause—which, _okay_ , seems _really_ weird given that all the rooms they’ve passed so far were labelled ‘B3-something’…

He doesn’t realize that he’s _literally_ paused with his fingers hovering above his brow, staring at the wall like a complete idiot, until Serge nudges him gently in the side with his elbow and says, “You feeling another headache coming on, mate?”

“…Yeah,” Prompto lies because he doesn’t know how to explain the unsettling amount of déjà vu he’s suffering right now. Though fevers have a tendency to put his mind through the wringer, he could’ve _sworn_ he’s seen ‘X3’ written somewhere else not too long ago. Perhaps it was on the imaginary note from the imaginary Ardyn his post-traumatic brain so graciously assaulted him with the other day? What a horrifying coincidence that would turn out to be…

“Let’s keep going,” Prompto adds as he turns abruptly and continues down the corridor, not 100% ready to address the anxiety attack slowly creeping up on him. Thankfully, Serge doesn’t press the matter, simply falls in line beside him as they continue their search.

Of course, it isn’t too long before Prompto receives his next overdose of cortisol, because he decides to hang right at the T-intersection, which eventually leads them to a set of double-doors along the next corridor labelled ‘X3-15’.

When his eyes latch on the number, a small part of Prompto’s brain wonders who came up with such a half-assed numbering scheme.

A bigger, much louder part of his brain wonders what kind of terrors lie in wait behind this particular set of doors.

So, naturally, he says, “We _need_ to get in here.”

Serge glances at door, then stares at Prompto out of the corner of his eye. “…Okay? Any reason why?”

“For the sake of my sanity.” He realizes this probably isn’t the best answer he could come up with, but he’s drawing up a blank on anything better right now. “Please. Just humor me.”

Serge glances at the door again, then at empty space on the wall beside it where a control panel would normally be, not that its presence would be much of a help right now since there’s no power at this end of the building. Prompto thinks the little black dot above the door might be a camera, but, again, no power means he can’t bluff his way into here either. None of that really matters, though, when Serge whips out the knife that’s hidden up his sleeve and jams it in between the two doors. When it becomes apparent to him that there’s no physical lock between them, Serge begins prying them apart. Prompto jumps in to help him as soon as Serge manages to pull them open an inch. Their combined effort only earns them about a foot and a half space between the doors, but that’s about all that they really need to slip through individually.

Because the room beyond is windowless, Prompto flicks on the light clipped to his jacket to get a good look at the place, although he doesn’t see anything that would be of use to them. There’s a long dining table in the centre of the room and a cabinet against the wall to the left. The wallpaper is kind of fancy, some green, floral-patterned affair that is a little out of place in a white-washed, minimalistic facility like this. Idly, though, he wonders if this is the sort of place Verstael would take his meals.

Apparently, that turns out to be exactly the case, because Serge suddenly looks like a kid in a candy store when he spots the door in the far left corner of the room. He makes a beeline for it and turns on his own flashlight so that he can better inspect it, although he immediately grunts in disappointment when he spots the hand scanner on the wall. Even so, he tries to dig his knife in around the edge of the door to see if he can open it on his own, but it turns out that the security for the room beyond is going to be a tougher nut to crack.

“On a scale of one to ecstatic, how excited are you to find this room?” Prompto asks.

“I’m off the charts,” Serge replies. Despite his obvious disappointment with the second door, he’s smiling. “I’m willing to bet these are General Besithia’s private quarters. The Captain will want to have a look in here once we get the power up and running again.”

“How long do you think that’s going to take?”

“Much longer than whatever time we have left for today.” Serge tugs up his left coat sleeve to glance at his watch. “We can continue poking around the place for a bit, but then we need to head back to the rendezvous point.”

Prompto glances at his own wristwatch, surprised by the time. They’ve got less than an hour left before they need to split.

“By the way,” Serge continues, “how did you know about this room?”

Wondering not for the first time if his encounter with Ardyn was perhaps a reality, Prompto swallows the lump in his throat and says, “I think I saw the room number in one of those files the other day.” He doesn’t know why he decides to go with a lie, but saying Ardyn’s name aloud, in a place that was obviously somehow significant to the man, did _not_ seem like a good idea at the moment. He quickly adds, “Can we go now, please?”

Serge looks mildly confused by his discomfort, but he nods slowly and then wordlessly follows Prompto as he squeezes through the space in the doorway back into the corridor.

They follow the winding corridor for another fifteen or so minutes, at which point they come across another set of double-doors that pique Serge’s interest. He pries these open as well so that they can slip through into what appears to be a large, shared office and archive; the left half of the room hosts several rows of bookshelves.

“This looks useful,” Prompto admits as he approaches one of the shelves. There are no boxes of files here, just a whole bunch of old hardcovered books. He pulls one off the nearest shelf and cracks it open, skimming what appears to be a run-of-the-mill textbook on botany. Then he tilts it toward Serge when the man leans over his shoulder to steal a glance. “Kind of out of place in a climate like this, isn’t it?”

“This mountain range wasn’t always trapped in a perpetual winter,” Serge replies. “As the story goes, when the Imperial Army stole Ifrit from his resting place at the Rock of Ravatogh, Shiva decided to rain all unholy hell upon them to avenge him. Even if the Empire won against her, which I doubt, she still managed to curse these lands.”

Prompto blinks at the other man, completely blown away by that fable. “I’m sorry—the Imperial Army _stole_ Ifrit?”

Serge shrugs. “That’s just a Niflheim fairy tale that they like to tell young children. Who knows the real reason it’s so frigid out here?”

Prompto kind of forgot that Aranea and her soldiers were all born in Niflheim, though he’s glad Serge reminded him. “Does Niflheim have any of their own legends about the Crystal?” he asks.

“Not really. Besides the fact that the Emperor thought he could use the Crystal himself to rid the world of the darkness, I don’t think anyone has given it much thought—except General Besithia, that is.”

“And I’m pretty sure everything he knows came from Ardyn.” Sighing, Prompto shelves the book. He still thinks it might be worth it to look around. At the very least, he can skim the titles in the time they have left.

“I always figured that the Chancellor knew more than he was letting on,” Serge mutters, scratching at his bruise again.

“You’ve spoken with him before?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve only seen him in passing. I was stationed at the palace for many years when I first joined the military, which meant that I often got to see him wind everyone up on their way to and from the throne room. Lady A never much liked him. High Commander Nox Fleuret openly despised him. To be honest, I found the Chancellor to be quite unsettling myself, beyond the confusing things he used to say to people.”

“How so?”

Serge stares at him for a moment, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, like he doesn’t know if Prompto will believe what he’s about to tell him. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, the other man finally relents and says, “I don’t think he’s aged a day in all the time that I’ve known him.”

Some people age with grace, so this tidbit of information wouldn’t normally surprise Prompto, but Serge’s unease prompts him to store it in the back of his brain for a rainy day. After all, as the monster that instigated this whole mess, ‘Ardyn’ was clearly another subject Prompto would have to look into if he wanted to understand why the Chancellor decided to throw the whole world into chaos.

Suddenly, they both hear a soft clank of armor out in the corridor. Prompto’s just about to pull out his Quicksilver when Serge hefts his rifle up and says, “I’ll deal with it. Take a look around and let me know if you think this is a place worth revisiting.”

Seeing no reason not to let someone else have a little fun mowing down MTs for a change, Prompto nods.

As Serge slips out into the corridor, Prompto turns back to the bookshelves, scanning the titles as his light passes over them. It’s mostly science-y stuff, with quite a few books focusing on parasites. Which makes sense, given that Verstael was trying to hijack the plasmodium that causes daemonification to create his magitek army.

When Prompto reaches the end of the first row, he pauses to wonder how likely he is to find anything un-related to biology in here. It’s then that the lights overhead flicker to life. Prompto turns off his flashlight just as doors give off a soft whine and slide the rest of the way open.

It’s also then that Serge skids to a halt outside the doors. “You need to see this,” he says urgently before darting out of sight again.

Alarmed, Prompto slips out his Quicksilver and takes off after his companion, sprinting down the winding corridor back the way they came. Eventually, Serge leads him to room X3-15, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder at Prompto before he ducks inside.

Prompto’s heart sinks. “Wait!” he calls out as he skids to a halt before the threshold of the room. It takes him a moment to steel himself for whatever Serge’s found before he steps inside, though when he glances from one corner of the room to another and discovers that he’s utterly alone, he comes to an abrupt halt again.

Frowning, Prompto wonders if Serge managed to find a way into the second room, though the other door appears to still be closed. Then his gaze falls on the far right end of the dining table where a bottle of red wine and two glasses have been set.

…Spooky.

Prompto shudders and turns to go—and then scrambles back a few steps when he finds Ardyn standing in the threshold, eyes half-lidded, the corner of his lips quirked in his trademark, feline smile. The man clicks his tongue at Prompto and says, “When it comes to tardiness, there is a point where ‘fashionably late’ can no longer apply, I’m afraid. A _day_ , for example, is a terribly long time to keep someone waiting.”

Prompto’s grip tightens on his gun, though he keeps it trained on the floor between them. Shooting Ardyn isn’t going to do anything but waste ammo. He knows he needs to be smart about this.

Even though he doesn’t intend to immediately shoot the other man, Ardyn’s eyes flicker to his gun. “No weapons at the dinner table, please,” he says, and just like that, Prompto’s pistol vanishes in a flash of mauve light, along with his SMG. “Although, if you’re good…” Ardyn raises his right hand, within which he is now holding Prompto’s Lion Heart. He gives it a little shake for emphasis. “I will consider relinquishing your arsenal to you once we’ve concluded our business for the evening.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Prompto tries to swallow. “Or,” he says cautiously, “you can just give me back my stuff now and we go our separate ways?”

Ardyn’s smile widens as he steps into the room. The doors slide shut behind him. “And deny myself the pleasure of your company? _Nonsense_.”

Prompto doesn’t realize he’s backed up further until he bumps into the table. “Okay, well…can you at least not involve Serge in whatever this is?”

“Your companion?” Ardyn waves his hand dismissively. Prompto’s Lion Heart has suspiciously vanished again. “Hardly worth my attention. Unless you try to run.”

“Don’t kill him,” Prompto asks, ashamed of how weak his voice sounds to his own ears, “or maim him…Please?”

“There’s nothing I can do about the concussion I’ve already given him,” Ardyn replies, suddenly sweeping across the room to the far end of the table. He pulls back the chair there and gestures Prompto forward to take it. “But it’s nothing a potion can’t cure when he wakes.”

Waiting until Ardyn drops into the seat adjacent to it, Prompto slips off his knapsack and deposits it on the floor by his feet as he cautiously lowers himself into the proffered chair. This feels 110% like a trap, but despite his mounting anxiety over whatever is about to go down here and the major uncanny-valley vibes Ardyn continues to give off, there’s nothing he can really do but sit there and listen to whatever this creep has to say.

Seemingly satisfied that Prompto is willing to play along with his strange tableau for the time being, Ardyn takes the wine bottle, which has already been de-corked, and begins pouring it into one of the glasses. When he moves to fill the other, Prompto quietly says, “I don’t drink.”

“Yet,” is Ardyn’s blunt response. He continues pouring, undeterred. “You have nothing to fear. I promise you, it hasn’t been poisoned.”

Prompto remembers reading somewhere that people only made unsolicited promises when they were planning on doing exactly what they said they wouldn’t. Or worse. Even so, Prompto doesn’t know how to further decline the drink without winding up with another high kick to the face, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Once Ardyn sets aside the bottle of wine, he grabs the glass closest to him and gives it a swirl. When he finally takes a sip, he closes his eyes, lips still quirked in a small smile, as if nothing could possibly give him more pleasure than this simple vice.

“You see?” Ardyn says after he’s lowered the glass from his mouth and, much to Prompto’s surprise, leans over to set it down before his guest. When Prompto stares at the glass, unmoving, he adds, “Be a dear and indulge me.”

Wow, what a _disgusting_ power move…But Prompto still doesn’t know how he’s going to squeeze his way out of this disaster, so he reaches out slowly and drags the glass a little closer to himself, turning it so that the part of the rim that Ardyn touched with his mouth is well away from his own when he finally braces himself and takes the smallest of sips.

Having never tasted wine before, Prompto has trouble making heads or tails of it. It’s not _bad_ , exactly, just confusing. It’s sweet and sour and bitter all at once, although ‘bitter’ more in… _feeling_ than in flavor. Honestly, he’s tasted worse things in his life, and he thinks he can make it to the bottom of this one glass if Ardyn pushes him that far. Any more than that would be too much. 

Although maybe he spoke too soon, because he’s hit by a wave of nausea when Ardyn casually says, “Your father also had a soft spot for merlots.”

“Why are you doing this?” Prompto asks abruptly, setting his glass down on the table a little harder than he intended. He’s getting awfully sick and tired of these games of Ardyn’s.

“Do I need a reason?” Ardyn replies before he samples the wine from the other glass. He looks entirely too pleased with everything, the bastard. “I’ve expended so much of my energy delivering your friend to his destiny, I’ve inadvertently neglected myself. Therefore, I very much intend to enjoy what time I have left before his return.”

“And when will that be?” Prompto asks, hoping he can somehow wind this conversation around to the Crystal. Then, at least, this encounter won’t be an entire waste.

Unfortunately, Ardyn clicks his tongue at him again, as if admonishing a young child. “To better understand your friend’s condition, you must first learn of the events precipitating his inevitable demise.”

“Is he dying?” Prompto’s stomach curls into itself, which makes him feel a little lightheaded. He pushes himself up to his feet, too agitated to simply sit there like a fool. “What did you do to him?”

“Rest assured, he is alive and well.” Ardyn pauses to glance at Prompto’s chair and then back up to Prompto again. “Now, sit.”

It takes more effort than Prompto imagined to sink back into his seat. He’s always been something of a nervous ball of energy. As it is, he can’t help it now but bounce his left knee under the table.

“The impatience of youth…” Ardyn mumbles to himself as he continues drinking his wine. It takes an agonizingly long time for him to resume his narrative; Prompto has no doubt the other man is savouring more than just the merlot here. “Tell me, what do you know of the scourge?”

Prompto tries to think back on what he learned in grade school. Despite the fact that so many people thought he was something of a ditz, Prompto grades weren’t all that bad. After all, Noctis needed someone he could reliably copy his homework from, and history, while somewhat confusing, happened to be one of Prompto’s favorite subjects.

It takes him a while, though, to dredge up what he remembers about the Starscourge. “It’s…been around since antiquity? Like thousands of years, at least.”

“Go on…”

“Well…early on in human history, the Astrals gifted the Founder King and the first Oracle the power to maintain—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Ardyn interjects softly, as if Prompto is somehow getting ahead of himself here. “Neither the Founder King _nor_ what the world presumes to be the first Oracle were initially gifted with the power to maintain the disease. That ‘ _honor_ ,’ if you will, was bestowed upon the Founder King’s brother.”

“…What?” So far as Prompto knows, _nobody_ on the paternal side of Noct’s family had a sibling. It was just one long line of only-childs. Which, granted, _was_ pretty weird, but Noct’s family was bizarre in a lot of ways. The fact that they could warp was still at the top of Prompto’s internal list of peculiarities.

“Somnus Lucis Caelum…” Ardyn says, pronouncing each word carefully. His voice is soft, but there’s a hidden menace buried somewhere in there, as if he has some kind of personal beef with the man who died approximately two thousand years ago. “He has an older brother. The royal family refers to him only as _Adagium_ now.”

That name— _Adagium_ —tickles something in the back of Prompto’s brain. It means ‘proverb,’ doesn’t it? Or does it mean ‘monster’? He can’t remember…Nor can he remember where he got that nugget of information. Did he stumble across it in the archives at that first facility or did he encounter it in his dream? Thanks to his fever, the last few days are more than a little hazy.

Prompto rubs his right temple gingerly, willing away the sudden pain behind his eyes. It feels like his headache is about to return with a vengeance.

“If this _Adagium_ was older, why wasn’t he made the first king of Lucis?” Prompto forces himself to ask, hoping to get this discussion over and done with already. He glances at the clock on the far wall and then tries not to have a heart attack when he realizes that he only has five minutes left to rendezvous with the others. Urgently, he adds, “And what does this guy have to do with the Crystal?”

Ardyn sighs, “This obsession of yours with the Crystal is interrupting the flow of our conversation.”

“ _Honestly_? The Crystal is still the only thing I really care about at this point.”

“That’s a shame. Here I was hoping you would take more after your father in the social arena. After all, you share his thirst for knowledge. He, at least, knew when to listen.”

“Cool,” he mutters, irked by the comparison, “but I’m not Verstael Besithia. Sorry to disappoint.”

Ardyn sighs again, although a little heavier this time. In fact, he looks thoroughly annoyed right now, hands clasped together over the table, eyeing Prompto as though he can’t quite decide what to do with him. “I was hoping to take the scenic route with you, but it appears as though we won’t be able to move forward until we’ve put the worst of this behind us.”

“You ruined my friend’s life,” Prompto snaps, rising again from his seat, its legs scraping loudly against the floor. He’s usually not quick to anger, but there’s a special hole of hatred in his heart for this man. “I’m never going to put that behind me.”

“Then you agree,” Ardyn replies, slowly rising to his feet. He stares down at Prompto, eyes dark, smiling once again. “Sometimes, the only way to deal with a fever is to let it burn its way through you.”

Prompto’s adrenal glands kick into overdrive when he sees that smile, his hand automatically going for the gun that’s no longer at his hip. He has absolutely no time at all to brace himself for the sudden wave of energy that blows him off his feet. It feels like someone’s taken a battering ram to his chest, knocking the wind clear out of him.

He passes out before he’s even hit the ground, drowning in a sea of violet light. 

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn says he's a patient man, but really? He's not.


	5. The death of a childhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello again, my loves. We’ll begin with a snippet from Prompto’s past and then jump right into the tough stuff, shall we?

~***~

For as long as Prompto could remember, he wanted to be a photographer.

In the second year of high school, he made a small webpage to advertise his limited expertise and began picking up a few gigs for cash. His usually offered his services for birthday or retirement parties, although he was hired for the odd wedding if the ceremony was small and the happy couple didn’t have deep enough pockets for someone more experienced. Overall, his newfound vocation wasn’t anything too serious, and his parents never let him take on more than one job every other week during the school year, but he made enough gil to fund his evenings out with Noctis whenever they decided to hit up the movies or the arcade, so he considered it a worthy endeavour. There was, of course, the added bonus that his job also afforded him the opportunity begin building a portfolio for his eventual application to the prestigious College of Photography in Altissia—

—which, _okay_ , might have sounded like a crazy idea, but even with the ongoing war with Niflheim, Accordo was surprisingly game about letting Lucian students slip into the country. And even though Prompto didn’t much like the idea of living away from his friends and family for a few years, he knew a degree from Altissia would give him a leg up for what he _really_ wanted, which was the best possible shot at being hired on as an official photographer for the royal family.

Snapping photographs of Noctis at every highbrow event, tagging along for diplomatic visits across the country, hopefully seeing the rest of the world when this awful business with Niflheim was over and done with, well that… _that_ was the dream, baby. It was exactly how Prompto wanted to live out the remainder of his days, a guaranteed attendee of _every_ special moment of his friend’s impending kingship.

It's just too bad Noct wasn’t as enthused with Prompto’s little scheme.

“Why Altissia?” he muttered the first time Prompto let him in on the secret, sounding somewhat accusatory because, obviously, how _dare_ Prompto entertain the idea of abandoning him so soon after they’d only just gotten to know one another?

“They have the best college for photography in the world,” Prompto replied. He was trying to focus on editing the current picture on his laptop, a snapshot of an engaged couple dancing barefoot on the perfectly manicured lawn of a nearby park. He’d promised to email their pictures back to them before tomorrow, which wasn’t going to be easy if his royal highness continued to distract him.

Noctis, who had flopped unceremoniously onto Prompto’s bed as soon as they walked through the door two hours ago—and _literally_ hadn’t moved since—let out a nasally huff of air. “You don’t need a degree to apply for the position, you know. It’s just a bonus if you do.”

“Yeah, for a job that is _insanely_ difficult to land.”

“But _…Altissia_?”

“I’m not excited about having to leave Insomnia either,” he sighed, saving the picture and moving on to the next one. Just twenty more to go and he’d be done. “But we have months yet before we graduate. We can save the sappy goodbyes for later, assuming my application to Altissia is accepted in the first place.”

But Noctis, of course, would not be Noctis if he didn’t let this matter go gently into the night, although he at least put a little effort into thwarting Prompto’s plans for leaving the country in a somewhat covert manner. In fact, instead of continuing to whittle away at Prompto’s resolve by nagging at him ad nauseam, which was his usual strategy for getting what he wanted, he quietly decided to pull out the Big Guns.

At that time, Prompto only knew the Big Guns as ‘Mr. Gladiolus Amicitia,’ the guy who whipped Noct’s ass on a daily basis during his royal sparring sessions. Prompto would often greet him in passing, but Gladio, like Ignis, was someone who put the fear of god in Prompto the moment they crossed paths when he burst into Noct’s chambers one evening and tore the prince a new one for skipping out on practice that day. Since then, Prompto made sure to give him a wide berth because like _hell_ did he ever want to wind up on the wrong side of that behemoth…

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be too long before Prompto had to face the beast head on himself. One summer evening a month after his confession about wanting to study in Altissia, Prompto spotted the man at the base of the stairs leading up to the Citadel. Prompto had just spent the last three hours trying to osmose his chemistry notes into Noct’s brain for tomorrow’s quiz, which, as usual, was something of a losing battle, so he finally decided to call it quits and was on his way home to whip up something to eat.

He inadvertently made eye contact with the other man when they were roughly twenty stairs apart, so Prompto did what he would normally do which was to nod politely and then divert his path to the far, _far_ right side of the stairs, giving the big guy all the space his little heart desired. However, it quickly became apparent to him that Gladio wasn’t the least bit interested in having a clear path to the Citadel when he immediately adjusted his trajectory for Prompto.

Somewhat stunned, Prompto slowed to a halt on the steps. He wondered if Gladio wanted to gruel him on something concerning Noctis, but since Prompto lived by the ride-or-die philosophy of friendship, he made the snap decision that it would be far better to immediately book it back to Noct’s room than allow himself to be pulled into an interrogation room by a guy who could probably break his legs just by staring at him hard enough. However, turning around revealed to Prompto that none other than Ignis Scientia was situated just a few paces behind him on the stairs, most likely to help Gladio corner him.

“Uh…” is all that Prompto could think of to say when he turned yet again and saw that Gladio, who had been taking the stairs two at a time, was now upon him, smiling widely at Prompto with his too-white teeth.

This couldn’t be good.

Neither was the first question that came out of Gladio’s mouth, which was: “You’re not in a hurry, are you?”

“Uh…” Prompto said again because he was the absolute _worst_ when it came to normal human interactions. Then his brain finally did a little reboot and provided him with a more customary response, although it killed him a little on the inside the second it left his mouth: “Good evening, Mr. Amicitia.”

Gladio also apparently thought the added honorary was a little too much because his face twisted first in confusion and then something a little like revulsion while Ignis, who had finally caught up to them, chuckled softly to himself.

“Not to sound cliché,” Gladio replied, “but Mr. Amicitia is my father. Please, don’t _ever_ call me that again.”

“I won’t,” Prompto wheezed, left breathless by his terror.

“But don’t worry about it,” Gladio added quickly, seeming to realize just how hard Prompto was now sweating at his sudden proximity. It didn’t help, of course, that Gladio’s solution to lightening the mood was to then sling an arm around Prompto’s shoulders, steering him back toward the Citadel. “Call me Gladio. It’s what I prefer.”

“We would like to borrow you for a moment,” Ignis said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He joined them on Prompto’s other side as Gladio herded him up the stairs, still trapped by his arm. “It’s nothing formal, I assure you.”

“Okay, but…” Prompto tried to glance over his shoulder at the main gate, his only escape route from the Citadel, but he couldn’t see anything over the bulk of Gladio’s muscles. Noctis once said Gladio could probably bench press a car if he wanted to, and Prompto couldn’t help but agree. “I need to get home soon to cook dinner. I should just—”

“—join us for a little of Iggy’s world class cooking,” Gladio interjected. “He’s going to prepare some kind of lasagna tonight. You like lasagna, right? Considering how fast you booked it during your school’s track-and-field day last weekend, I bet you’re a high-protein diet kind of guy.”

Prompto didn’t know why it surprised him to discover that Gladio was in the audience during his school’s recent track event. After all, Noctis had also been forced to participate and his security personnel were always hovering in the periphery whenever he competed in anything. But Gladio technically wasn’t an official member of his security team yet, and since Noctis hated having an audience, Prompto couldn’t see him inviting his future Shield to the event.

So why, then, had Gladio been there?

Seeing as Prompto didn’t have the guts to ask the man outright, he kept his mouth firmly shut as they led him back into the Citadel and then down the corridor to the Noct’s sparring room. They didn’t quite make it all the way to said sparring room, though, instead pulling up short in front of a door that Prompto had never really noticed before. It led to a set of stairs that ended a floor below at another door with a key card access panel. Gladio pulled out one such card from his back pocket and swiped them in.

Beyond the door was an empty shooting range.

Prompto was confused at first. Then moderately horrified.

As a Lucian, Prompto knew that the crown could demand just about anything of him, but he could think of no logical reason why they would want to show him a bunch of guns or see how well he could handle them. Like, _seriously_ , they weren’t going to ring him into learning how to _assassinate_ someone, were they?

“I don’t know anything about guns,” Prompto practically squealed, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them, because this was technically a lie.

Gladio obviously knew that because he squinted down at Prompto curiously and said, “The prince told me your father’s taken you to a range before.”

“Just the once,” he confessed. Both of his parents were lawyers, the sort that made enough money to send their son to the same prestigious school that the crown prince attended but who didn’t have the time to enrich his life in any other way. Not that they didn’t try. His dad concocted some of the weirdest father-son activities every once in a blue moon, although their impromptu trip to the shooting gallery had been nowhere near as weird as that basket-weaving workshop he brilliantly scheduled at the ungodliest hour of the morning one weekend.

“Do you know which end of a gun the bullet comes out of?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

After Gladio pulled him up to the counter, he disappeared briefly to collect a pistol from a barred rack in the corner. Meanwhile, Ignis wandered off to collect them each a set of protective eyeglasses and earmuffs. Prompto just stood there, trying to ignore how clammy his hands were getting.

Prompto had to wipe his palms off on his jeans at least fifteen times before he felt they were dry enough to take the pistol from Gladio. Once a paper target was set up for him at the opposite end of the range, Gladio gave him a thumbs up and waited patiently for him to begin.

Remembering vaguely that breathing was important, Prompto took a moment to collect himself and then squeezed the trigger.

He probably shouldn’t have taken one shot immediately after the other, but when the paper target was rolled back across the room to them, Prompto was pleasantly surprised to discover that he wasn’t as abysmal with a firearm as he thought he would be. He didn’t hit the bullseye on the chest, but his shots were tightly clustered together about an inch to the left of it. Not too shabby, really…

When he removed his earmuffs, he could hear Gladio give off a low whistle.

Ignis, who also looked satisfied by Prompto’s performance, nodded to his partner in way that conveyed some seemingly secret message to him and said, “I should check on the lasagna.” Then he returned his protective gear to the shelf by the door and disappeared back upstairs.

“So…” Prompto began, watching as Gladio swapped the paper target for a new one, “are you going to tell me what this all about or what?”

“In a minute,” Gladio replied, flipping the switch to roll the target to the other end of the range. “Now, come here.”

Noctis once remarked that Gladio could be a handsy guy when it came to training, and Prompto was not exempt from being aggressively manhandled into the correct position. In fact, he was pretty sure Gladio was the first person to touch his hips since he was five, twisting those first and then Prompto’s shoulders so that he was properly facing the target. The man continued to tweak his stance for the better part of the hour that they spent down there, until the cluster of Prompto’s shots got a little tighter together and finally migrated over the bullseye on the chest.

“I think it’s been more than a minute,” Prompto said after Gladio had returned the pistol to the gun rack and deposited their protective gear on the shelf by the door.

“I think you’re right,” Gladio replied as he led Prompto back upstairs. Once they were out in the corridor, he finally stopped and said, “What are your thoughts on the Crownsguard?”

“They’re…cool, I guess?” They _were_ pretty cool, although they had the tendency to scare the living daylights out of him whenever they appeared out of seemingly nowhere.

“Once you graduate high school, you can apply to apprentice as one with either Ignis or myself.”

Prompto blinked up at him, dumbfounded. “…I’m sorry, _what_?”

“You can easily specialize in long-range weaponry,” Gladio continued, completely blowing over his question. “I mean, Noct said you liked to shoot people as a hobby—”

“With a _camera_.”

“—but I had no idea your aim would be that good.” Gladio smiled down at him, like he thought this whole situation was a little funny. “And, yeah, I told him that a camera wasn’t anything like a gun, which is why I wanted to see how you would perform tonight. You did incredibly well for someone who was so nervous. You’re in pretty good shape, too. Noct told me that you knew how to run, but I was kind of blown away by how fast you were on the track.”

Ever so slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place for Prompto. He’d never expressed an interest in joining the Crownsguard before, but Noctis knew that he wanted to get a job at the palace, one that would enable him to remain in close contact with his friend on a daily basis…

“Holy shit,” Prompto breathed, somewhat stunned by this revelation. “Is Noct trying to get me into the Crownsguard to keep me in the country?”

Gladio’s smile fell briefly, replaced by a look of long-suffering. “Kid, he’s been whining _non_ - _stop_ about Altissia for about a month now. He’s not going to push you to do this if this really isn’t up your alley, but please tell me that you’ll at least consider it?”

 _Seriously_? …Becoming a body-guard and soldier was a world away from being a photographer, and Prompto wasn’t exactly a violent guy, but…but joining the Crownsguard didn’t mean he would be gunning someone down literally every day, right? Besides, no one could be considered an official member of the Crownsguard until they were at least twenty-one, which meant that he had time yet to see how well this profession suited him. In fact, he had quite a few years as a trainee to determine if he could stomach the kind of work that would be demanded of him. And at the end of it all, _if_ he decided to stick with it, he _would_ wind up working closely with Noctis for the rest of his life…

“Do you really think I have what it takes?” Prompto asked, because he didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing— _nor_ did he want to get the job simply because Noctis was planning on putting in a good word for him.

“I do.” The fact that Gladio didn’t hesitate with his answer made Prompto feel just a little warm and fuzzy on the inside. “But I would like you to keep practicing. If you work a little on your aim, we can start teaching you how to shoot on the run by the end of the year.”

“Oh man, that would be _amazing_ …”

Evidently pleased that Prompto was warming up to the idea, Gladio led him out to the main courtyard, where Noct and Ignis were already waiting for them. They were sitting together at a table inside the gazebo, upon which sat a casserole dish covered in tinfoil and four dining sets. Noctis rose cautiously from his seat when he saw them approaching, looking a bit nervous when he turned to Prompto and said, “So, about your trip to Altissia…?”

“Postponed,” Prompto replied, trying hard not to smile, which was next to impossible. “Could be indefinitely, depending on whether or not I can cut it as a Crownsguard.”

“Splendid!” Ignis said as he rose from his seat, leaning over the table to the remove the tinfoil from his lasagna.

Noctis looked as though the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, and that…well, how could Prompto describe how light he himself felt when he realized just how _relieved_ Noctis apparently was to keep him by his side? Maybe Noctis could’ve outright _suggested_ the Crownsguard route instead of enlisting the help of one of the most terrifying men in his employ to change Prompto’s mind, but it still felt good to be wanted, and at the end of the day, it was still Prompto’s decision on whether or not he wanted go, wasn’t it? Deep down inside, he knew Noctis would ultimately support him if he was still dead set on Altissia.

They tapped their elbows together in their customary not-so-secret-but-still-kinda-secret hand-shake before joining Ignis and Gladio at the table. This would mark the first of many meals enjoyed between the four of them, the founding members of Noct’s royal retinue and best damn hunting quartet this side of Eos.

It was also the first instance in which Prompto really began to feel his worth.

~***~

But by the time that Prompto wakes, Ardyn has already begun the harrowing process of destroying any sense of worth he once held for himself.

As he returns to consciousness, he discovers that his world has been plunged into a queasy sort of darkness, the only light in the room being the too-harsh glow of a computer screen somewhere off to his far left. It casts a terrible shadow on the wall to his right, which is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, that of a man shifting in a sickening rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the ever-sharpening sting of pain between Prompto’s legs.

The unusual pain is alarming, but initially Prompto _truly_ doesn’t understand what’s going on. It takes his mind a while to claw its way out of the hazy depths Ardyn cast him into as he slowly turns his head to get a better look at the man moving above him, wondering why he suddenly feels like a butterfly pinned to a Styrofoam board, splayed out for someone’s viewing pleasure.

It all finally comes together for him when Ardyn, his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a coy little smile, sighs in delight and says, “Am I really your first, dearest? You’re doing _so_ well.”

Ardyn’s question triggers a sudden wave of nausea, though Prompto somehow manages not to vomit as he jerks in surprise, reaching down with his left hand to pry at the fingers digging into his hips. Simultaneously, he tries to wriggle his right hand out of the length of rope tying it to a bar of the elaborate headboard above him. His efforts, of course, get him nowhere because he’s got no leverage whatsoever with how he's pinned on his back, half restrained and held down by a man much larger and stronger than himself.

Ardyn’s only response to his flailing is to hike Prompto’s right leg a little higher up his against flank and adjust the angle of his next thrust.

Panicking, Prompto tries to look for something within reach to use as a weapon, although he can’t see much of anything in the darkness. All that he can really determine is that they’re tangled naked together in the sheets of somebody’s bed, though Prompto doesn’t know where the fuck that is. In fact, he’s drawing a blank on a number of things right now, finding it hard to focus on anything beyond how disgustingly full he feels where the two of them are connected, twitching in discomfort as Ardyn continues to rock into him undeterred. He tries to squirm away, but Ardyn puts an end to that by leaning a little farther forward and snaking his right arm under the small of Prompto’s back to hold him steady. The new position slows Ardyn’s pace, but that only makes it feel worse somehow. Too intimate, especially now that Prompto can feel Ardyn breathing against the side of his face with every little grunt of pleasure.

“Please,” Prompto gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat feels tight. His eyes are beginning to burn with tears. “ _Stop_.”

“But another—” Ardyn groans, pausing as he shifts ever so slightly. His breath hitches as he finds a more comfortable position for himself. “—another minute can hardly hurt you more than the moment you woke to our passions.”

Some small part of Prompto figures that must be true. Ardyn robbed him of any chance he had of defending himself or, at the very least, coming to terms with what Ardyn had planned for him first by beginning this without him. Nothing in his life will be quite so horrifying as the moment he returned to his senses and discovered the indignity Ardyn had bestowed upon him by reducing him to a tool for his pleasure.

Knowing that there is nothing he can do, Prompto tries to think of something far removed from this awful place. At least, he _wishes_ he could just zone out, but it’s a losing battle. He’s distracted by the sound of skin slapping against skin and the second hitch of Ardyn’s breath right before the man tucks his head into the crook of Prompto’s neck and kisses him just below his ear.

The brush of Ardyn’s lips against his skin is too much for him. Prompto shudders in revulsion and openly sobs, clinging to the man with his free hand as Ardyn’s rhythm stutters. The man groans again, a deep, primal sound that Prompto feels in his bones as Ardyn finally achieves his climax.

The wind-down from there isn’t much of a better experience than the rape itself, because the only thing worse than feeling Ardyn moving inside him is the feeling of him gradually softening instead. The other man also has no qualms about simply lying down on top of him, crushing Prompto with his weight. In fact, he chuckles softly when Prompto tries to push him off and says, “If you keep moving, my dear, you’ll run the risk of exciting me for another round.”

Therefore, Prompto resigns himself to suffocating to death until Ardyn finally relents and lifts himself off his captive. He pulls out in the same motion, which is a different kind of pain all its own, and then pushes himself up off the bed. As soon as he’s standing, Prompto takes this opportunity to pull his legs together, hoping Ardyn doesn’t have second thoughts about continuing.

Prompto tries not to move much beyond that, heart pounding in his chest as he wonders what Ardyn has in store for him next. He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling as Ardyn removes the condom he apparently had the decency to wear and discards it in a wastebasket beside the bed. Then he stretches his arms above his head before he says, “When I was young, we had a fun little term for the loss of one’s virginity. I believe in your tongue it loosely translates to ‘ _the death of a childhood_ ’—which is _wonderfully_ tongue in cheek, if you ask me, because the little ‘deaths’ are really what make life worth living, are they not?”

Prompto could honestly care less what Ardyn wants to call it or how the other man knows Prompto has never been with anyone else before. Everything is eclipsed by the fact that his first time had been stolen by the enemy of his oldest friend, that what _should_ have been an intimate moment with someone he loved had been reduced to…to _this_.

He doesn’t think he will be able stomach the thought of ever having sex again after this.

Trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, Prompto quietly asks, “Why?”

“I’ve already told you,” Ardyn replies as he begins collecting his clothes off the floor. Prompto continues to keep his eyes averted as the man dresses himself, mortified at the thought of accidentally catching a glimpse of what Ardyn had…had put inside of him. “We won’t be able to move forward until we’ve put the worst of this behind us. Well, here it is…Liberating, isn’t it?”

It _isn’t_ , but since Prompto would rather die than discuss the apparent _favor_ Ardyn thinks he did for him by fucking him without his consent, he doesn’t bother arguing.

After Ardyn’s pulled up his trousers, he slips on his shirt and sits down on the bed beside Prompto’s right hip, twisted halfway around to stare at Prompto as he fiddles with his buttons. Instinctively, Prompto makes eye contact with him briefly, though he quickly stares up at the ceiling again, hating how vulnerable he still feels after everything, lying there completely nude with his one hand tied to the corner of the headboard.

“My, aren’t you a _vision_ …” Ardyn softly growls, drinking in the sight of him. Once he finishes with the buttons on the front of his shirt, he begins on his cuffs, making quick work of the silvery links. “Still a tad lanky, but already so much like your father—and _do_ take that as a compliment, my dear. I’ve always held Verstael in the highest regard. You have little reason to be insulted by the comparison.”

Prompto shifts uncomfortably on the bed, stomach turning at the thought that maybe Ardyn wouldn’t have felt compelled to screw him in the first place if he’d never had such a close relationship with Prompto’s maker. He supposes that’s just another thing he has to thank Verstael for, on top of giving him a crisis over his sense of identity.

While Prompto is distracted by this nauseating thought, Ardyn takes this opportunity to strike one last time, slipping a hand around Prompto’s jaw to tilt his head back at an awkward angle as he curls the other around Prompto’s free wrist, pinning it to the bed. Then he ducks his head, kissing Prompto with an eagerness that matches his earlier fervor.

Prompto cries out into Ardyn’s mouth as he tries to twist away from him. He bites down on the tongue that snakes between his lips but is surprised when he doesn’t immediately taste blood. Instead, he tastes something… _chemical_ , which dribbles down the back of throat and chokes him, prompting him to redouble his efforts to escape Ardyn’s hold on him.

Pulling back just as suddenly, Ardyn slips his hand from Prompto’s jaw to his throat, though he doesn’t tighten his grip. Instead, Ardyn’s fingers feel oddly warm against his skin, almost…comforting.

The other man clicks his tongue in admonishment as a flash of light briefly blinds Prompto; the taste in Prompto’s mouth immediately vanishes. “We need to keep you in tip-top shape for the usurper’s return, now don’t we?” Ardyn says, just as cryptic as ever.

Prompto has absolutely no idea what just happened or what Ardyn is talking about. By the time he blinks away the specks of light dancing across his eyes, Ardyn has risen from the bed again and slipped on his vest and coat. He is now trying to shuffle his feet into his shoes, glancing around himself as if he’s somehow forgetting something. Prompto doesn’t know why he feels so agitated with the stupidly pleased look that then crosses Ardyn’s face when the other man spots this ‘something’ on the other side of the room.

Rounding the bed, Ardyn scoops his hat up from the bedside table and plops it haphazardly on his head. It’s hard not to be somewhat mesmerized by the theatrical ease with which Ardyn moves, but Prompto is only half-watching him at the moment—when Ardyn picked up his hat, that eerie glow from the computer screen glinted off something else on the bedside table, which turns out to be the buckle of Prompto’s hip holster. It’s still empty, which is a little disheartening, but on top of it sits his Alstroemeria, still in its sheath, the silver etchings of its handle glowing in the harsh light.

Now that he’s set himself to rights again, Ardyn braces his hat against his head with one hand and bends at the waist in the deepest of bows. “Though I am loath to part with you, there is somewhere else I really ought to be right now—but fear not! I will return to you before the end of the hour. We will revisit our passions then.”

Prompto tries not to scream when he realizes he has more of _this_ to look forward to before the night is through…

His heart jumps into his throat when Ardyn straightens again, abruptly pivots on his heel, and walks briskly toward the door situated on the wall opposite the bed. As it slides open, he twirls back around to wink at Prompto, eyeing his captive up one last time before vanishing into the darkened room beyond.

When the door slides shut behind Ardyn, Prompto lies there for a moment, frozen in fear, half expecting his assailant to mysteriously reappear. He wouldn’t put it past Ardyn to pretend that leaving Prompto had been nothing more than a joke…

After what feels like a small eternity, Prompto takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to ignore the way his heart is hammering inside his chest.

He has less than an hour to get out of here.

In something of a blind panic, he rolls over onto his right side and props himself up on his elbow to see what kind of mess Ardyn’s left him in with this rope. The man had looped it several times between a bar on the headboard and around Prompto’s wrist, tying it off in with an intricate series of knots that Prompto tries to pry loose with his free hand. However, the lighting in here really isn’t the best and he’s shaking so hard that it quickly becomes apparent to him that he's going nowhere fast. He’s not getting out of this one without some kind of tool.

His first instinct is to reach into the armiger for his Audax Blade. When it fails to materialize, he remembers that he pulled it out that morning to carry it in his knapsack. Taking a deep breath, he then tries to summon one of his pistols—only to come up short yet again.

“ _No_ ,” Prompto sobs, glancing over at his Alstroemeria, the only weapon currently at his disposal. It feels as though it’s a world away on the other side of the queen sized bed. 

Heart still racing, Prompto rolls over onto his back and tries to shift as far as he possibly can to the left side of the bed. “Please,” he gasps, his vision going a little hazy with tears when he makes a grab for the strap of his hip holster where it’s hanging off the bedside table and comes up short. “Oh Six, _please_ …”

He tries to shift a little further, straining the rope as far as it’s willing to go. His fingers brush the strap on his second attempt, but it swings gently to and fro upon contact, stupidly uncooperative. Briefly, he pulls his hand back to wipe the tears from his eyes, worried that ‘ _before the end of the hour_ ’ might actually mean ‘ _in five or so minutes_ ’ in Ardyn’s convoluted language. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get another chance as good as this one to escape once Ardyn returns.

“ _Please, please, please, please, please_ …” Prompto breathes as he tries again, continuing his mantra until the strap slips between his forefinger and his middle finger. He immediately squeezes them together and gives the holster a gentle tug. It moves closer to the edge, but his Alstroemeria turns slightly at the motion. One wrong move and it’ll end up on the floor.

Prompto cries out in frustration and then tugs again. When his Alstroemeria turns no further, he gives it one last go, a little harder this time—pulling both his holster and knife onto the mattress.

“Thank you, Iggy,” Prompto gasps in relief as he grabs his knife and wiggles it out of its sheath. When he rolls onto his side again and saws the blade against the rope, it cuts through the damn thing like butter. This really shouldn’t surprise him, though, because Ignis had always taken the greatest of care in everything he did, from sharpening his weapons to providing his fool of a colleague the only ticket to his freedom.

Once he’s freed himself, Prompto wastes no time in rolling off the bed and searching for his clothes, stalled momentarily by the sudden spasm of pain in his lower back and between his thighs. Limping, he pauses in his search to make his way over to where his bag was deposited halfway between the bed and the door and then gingerly crouches down to rummage through it. Although his Audax is mysteriously gone, Ardyn fortunately didn’t relieve him of his curatives. Prompto immediately grabs a potion and crushes the blue-green bottle, hoping it will be enough to wash away the worst of his pain.

A familiar warmth shots up his arm and then spreads throughout the rest of his body as the bottle disintegrates, washing away his physical aches and mending his wounds, internal and external alike. The blissful sensation also eases his racing heart, affording him a moment of clarity as he rises once again and, no longer quivering in shock or horror, begins to collect his scattered clothes.

His fear, of course, returns to him gradually, but he’s better able to shift it to the backburner as he quickly redresses. It still takes him thirty seconds longer than he would have liked to find his left boot, which he uncovers near the desk with the blinding computer screen. He stares at the login screen as he tries to shove his foot into the boot, wondering whose room this is and what kind of information they could’ve stashed away on their personal computer.

It only occurs to Prompto that he might actually already knew where he is when he finally slings his knapsack over his shoulder, his Alstroemeria in hand, and realizes that the green, floral-patterned wallpaper of the room looks eerily familiar. Then it dawns on it that the dining room Ardyn trapped him in had the _exact_ same wallpaper.

This, then, was Verstael’s bedroom.

He doesn’t know why that revelation upsets him. His eyes sting with fresh tears as Prompto turns his head to look at the rumpled sheets on the bed. This place suddenly seems so inescapable, as if Fate had never really intended for him leave those twenty odd years ago. Ardyn and Verstael created him here, and he might very well die here like all his brothers, even if not in quite the same manner.

It takes him more effort than he’s willing to ever admit in order to get himself moving again. His legs feel like lead as he approaches the door Ardyn slipped through earlier, silently hoping there isn’t some secret magic trick to getting the damn thing opened. Fortunately, there isn’t. It slides open once he’s close enough to trigger some hidden sensor, revealing the empty dining room he knew would be waiting for him on the other side.

He almost steps into the other room when something occurs to him. He then pivots back toward the desk, dragging Verstael’s office chair to the threshold to stop the door dead in its tracks when it tries to slide shut behind him. Ardyn might knock it out of the way when he returns, but hopefully whatever dastardly business Ardyn was up to now occupied him for much longer than an hour, because if Wedge could get his hands on Verstael’s personal computer then…well, then maybe the horror that Prompto had to endure here tonight would’ve been worth something in the end.

From there, Prompto’s not sure where to go. Though the light is off in the dining room, the corridor beyond it is illuminated. Even so, Prompto can hear something that sounds suspiciously like goblins hopping around like the little maniacs they are somewhere down the hallway. A glance at the clock on the far wall reads 19:38, prime time for their sort of mischief.

Wedge and the others are probably long gone by now.

Tightening his grip on his Alstroemeria, Prompto pops his head out into the corridor. Sure enough, a bunch of goblins are loitering down the hall. He glances the other way, and, seeing that the coast is clear, darts out of the room and around the next corner.

He doesn’t know if there’s really anywhere safe to hide in this building, although since he stumbled across one of the Oracle’s campsites the last time he was here, he’s hoping there might be another one somewhere nearby. As such, he feels that his best bet is to split before he’s swarmed, though it's unfortunate that the only exit he really knows of is the one they came through this morning.

Inevitably, he runs into trouble along the way when he stumbles across a ronin and a pack of flans. He’s not sure how he manages to duck the ronin’s blade, but he’s swatted at least fifteen feet down the corridor when a flan slaps at him with its gooey hands. He crashes to a halt his knees and then falls face forward, head spinning as it bounces off the floor. He supposes he should consider himself lucky that he doesn’t break his nose in the fall, but that small victory is short-lived when he feels a hand curling around his left elbow while he lies there in something of a daze.

Terrified, Prompto only allows himself to be pulled back up on his aching knees so that he can swipe at his new assailant with his knife.

By some stroke of luck, Serge, who is sporting a real bruiser of a black eye, releases his arm and dances back a step just in time to avoid splitting his gut open on the wrong end of Prompto’s blade.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Prompto winces, horrified by what he’d almost done. “I am _so_ sorry—”

“It’s alright,” Serge replies, extending a hand to help him back to his feet. Once Prompto is standing again, Serge hands him his SMG and then pulls out the pistol from his hip holster to arm himself. He glances warily over his shoulder at the ronin and the flans. “We need to get out of here.”

Thankfully, they’re not too far from the exit now. They run into another swarm of flans along the way, but Serge whips out a flame grenade and hurtles it into the middle of the group. They duck into an adjacent room when the corridor ignites, waiting impatiently for the fire to dwindle so they can venture back out again.

During their brief reprieve, Serge takes this opportunity to rummage through his own pack to pull out a potion. He sighs in relief once he shatters it, the bruises on his jaw and around his eye fading almost immediately.

“What happened?” Prompto asks, wondering what Ardyn did to the soldier while he was out.

“I don’t know,” Serge sighs. “Something knocked me over when I spotted the MT and then took a swing at my face. I woke up in a storage closet not too long ago.” He shakes his head, looking thoroughly pissed off. “Mate, this place is taking one bloody shot to my pride right after another…”

Prompto supposes it’s something of a relief that Ardyn didn’t kill the other man or leave him lying out in the corridor for some daemon to feast upon—not that this has earned Ardyn any brownie points. The man is still a monster.

“What about you?” Serge asks, eyeing Prompto’s empty hip holster. “Something got the jump on you too?”

Prompto’s throat tightens uncomfortably as he comes to the horrifying realization that he can’t tell Serge what happened to him—that he can’t tell _anyone_ what happened to him. He doesn’t want to revisit that nightmare again so soon. What Ardyn had done to him was…it was _beyond_ cruel.

All the same, he knows he can’t keep Serge or any of Aranea’s other people in the complete dark here, not if he wants to keep them out of danger, so he swallows the lump of grief in his throat and says, “I ran into Ardyn. It…it got a little violent.”

“Chancellor Izunia?” Serge asks, blinking at him in surprise.

“The one and only,” Prompto sighs. “We had a long conversation about…well, I don’t know what point he was trying to make. He has a way of using far too many words to say a whole lot of nothing. All I know is that we need to warn everyone that he’s lurking around your operation now.”

“Bloody _fucking_ hell…” Serge mutters, ducking his head out into the corridor. The flames look as though they’re beginning die down. “Captain Kincaid is _not_ going to be pleased about this. Neither is Lady A, I imagine.”

They fall into an uneasy kind of silence until Serge deems it safe to continue. They only have one last corridor to go before they reach the front entrance and then they are finally back outside again, trapped in the freezing cold. There are daemons out here, of course, but there’s a vicious wind whipping all around them, the makings of another unholy storm, that blows an Iron Giant flat on its back when it tries to swing its sword at absolutely nothing. Even the imps dancing around its feet appear to be having a hard time staying upright, squealing in fear as they continue stumbling into one another.

Initially, Prompto worries that they won’t be able to find any kind of shelter in this madness, but then Serge gives his coat sleeve a hard tug and points to where their companions had left them a snowmobile parked under a flickering light beside the main gate.

Prompto just about crumples in relief before Serge hooks an arm around his shoulders and, together, they trudge through the snow to their vehicle. Serge takes the wheel and Prompto hops on behind him, grateful that the wind is at their back as they make their way up the darkened slope to the outpost.

As the facility vanishes into the darkness behind them, the wind roaring in their ears, Prompto wonders if he will ever find the strength to venture down there again. Aranea seemed so eager to have him here, and her soldiers had remarked several times already how much easier his very presence had made their operation. But with Ardyn lingering in the shadows, maybe the game was up for them? After all, Ardyn didn’t seem to really care about Niflheim. In fact, he acted very much as though he wanted the whole of Eos to burn.

Mind awhirl, Prompto tries not to focus on Ardyn for the moment, keeping his eyes peeled for daemons. He’ll deal with his Ardyn problem tomorrow.

Tomorrow…tomorrow, he might very well decide to leave.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ...But how are you going to do that without a functioning airship, you silly boy?
> 
> PS: Please excuse any grammar or spelling errors. I've read this chapter over a number of times already and continue to find them. I'll probably catch the last of them tomorrow. My apologies.


	6. Metelyk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You might’ve noticed that I changed the summary. Initially, I wasn’t sure what to write without giving away anything too important about the plot. Said plot hasn’t changed; rather, I realized the original summary simply didn’t reflect the fact that this is very much Prompto’s story, even if Ardyn thinks it’s all about him…

~***~

Thankfully, no daemons try to attack them along their trek back to the outpost, because Prompto spends the better part of the trip in a daze.

After they’ve pulled into the hangar and the massive door slams shut behind them, they’re swarmed by a handful of soldiers. Most direct their questions to Serge, although one of them, Tantum, who usually mans the outpost window, rushes over to offer Prompto a hand off the snowmobile. “Thank the gods you’re alright,” the officer says, but his voice sounds almost far away, as if Prompto were somehow dreaming.

 _‘But I’m not alright_ ,’ is Prompto’s immediate thought, thinking of the pitiful state Ardyn left him in less than an hour ago. So much has happened to him in so little time, it seems almost remarkable that he made it back here in one piece. Aloud, he says, with the same, strange distant quality to his own voice, “I’m okay, but I would like to lie down now, if that’s alright…”

“What happened?” Vance asks as Prompto goes through the motions of pulling his camera out of his knapsack before handing the bag over to her, followed shortly by the SMG that Serge lent him for their escape. “Trisk and the Captain stayed behind just past nightfall to look for you. We thought you were dead.”

Prompto stares past her at the wall, trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat in his chest. He feels like if he says too much, he’s going to burst into tears again.

It’s not fair, really. Why should he feel so embarrassed about this when he didn’t do anything wrong?

“It was—” he begins to say and then pauses to clear his throat. Gods, he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s about to cry, does he? “It was really Ardyn that I saw the other day. He came back. I don’t think anyone is safe at the facility with him around.” 

“Well… _fuck_ ,” Vance mutters darkly, just as Wedge sweeps into the room behind her.

“Language, Sergeant,” the Captain gently chides her before zeroing in on Prompto. The other man looks genuinely relieved to see him, although his expression turns solemn when he catches on to what they’re discussing. “You say the Chancellor was at the facility again today?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” Prompto replies, glancing longingly at the door that leads to the barracks. He initially thought that being around other _normal_ people might help to keep his mind off what happened tonight, but instead he feels so incredibly exposed just standing here in this cold, _cold_ hangar, like if he says too much they’ll know exactly what Ardyn did to him.

“This complicates matters,” Wedge sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. “If the Chancellor is here, I’m willing to bet he knows what we’re up to...”

“Do you think Aranea will order you guys to leave?” Prompto asks, hoping against all hope that they split before Ardyn has a chance to strike again.

He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he doesn’t think he can last another day in Niflheim.

Much to his disappointment, Wedge shakes his head. “We’re not going anywhere while the airship is down.”

 _Shit_. He totally forgot about that…

Pulling off his beanie, Prompto runs a hand through his hair and then immediately drops it back down to his side, curling it into a fist, hoping no one’s noticed how hard he’s still apparently shaking. “Is there anyone you can call for back up?” he asks, slim as the chance might be.

“We will absolutely have to call in a few favors at this point, but I know it’ll be a few days yet before anyone can come to our aid, what with everyone focusing on the evacuations right now…”

“What evacuations?”

“Since the longer nights have apparently emboldened the daemons, several of our colleagues have focused their efforts on collecting citizens from the countryside and delivering them to Gralea. The city is bright enough at night to keep everyone safe. In fact, we’re planning on lending them our services once we’ve finished up here.”

Though Prompto’s heart sinks at the thought of encountering Ardyn again before he can flee back to Lestallum, he feels admittedly worse for the people of Niflheim. As their Emperor’s obsession with Lucis and the Crystal deepened into a strange kind of mania in recent years, one that Prompto has no doubt was precipitated by Ardyn, he had begun to focus his attention entirely on the war instead of the needs of his people. They were suffering just the same as everyone else right now, trapped in a seemingly inescapable situation. No one in Eos would be spared the horrors that awaited them once one night began to bleed seamlessly into another.

Now, more than ever, it was important to determine what needed to be done to wake Noctis from his slumber.

As the conversation carries on between his companions, centred primarily on who Wedge plans on calling for help, Prompto’s mind slips further into the void. Numbly, he wonders if he would have the heart to leave Niflheim if he even _had_ the chance to do so now. He could think of no better place than Verstael’s personal domain in the mountains to unravel the mysteries of the Crystal. Gralea might have been his next best bet if it hadn’t already been made abundantly clear that Aldercapt and his innermost sanctum—excluding, perhaps, Verstael—knew next to nothing about the Crystal. Ardyn, of course, knew _everything_ , but Prompto isn’t quite so desperate for answers that he would stoop to bargaining for them from that despicable man. Besides, Ardyn doesn’t strike him as the bargaining type. He simply takes what he wants without question.

Just as Prompto is beginning to wonder if he’s too much of a coward to continue this journey on his own, he’s scared out of his wits by the hand that suddenly claps him on the shoulder. Thankfully, he doesn’t scream, but he jolts away from the offending appendage hard enough that his reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by Serge.

“Sorry, mate,” Serge mumbles, retracting his hand. “You didn’t answer, so I wasn’t sure if you heard me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What was your question?” Prompto asks, unclenching and clenching his hand again at his side, hoping nobody else saw him flinch. Fortunately, they appear as though they’re still absorbed in their conversation, too occupied with their current dilemma to give him much thought.

For the briefest of moments, there’s a spot of tension on Serge’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. It reminds Prompto a little of the way Ignis looks whenever he’s analyzing something that seems slightly askew, but it vanishes before he can be sure he really saw it.

“Did you want me to grab you something to eat?” Serge continues, offering him a friendly smile. “You look like you’re about ready to pass out, mate. Maybe hop in the shower and try to unwind a little before you hit the sack?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, grateful to finally have an excuse to make his exit. “That would be appreciated.”

“No problem,” Serge says just as Prompto turns away from him and makes a beeline for the door.

Fortunately, the barracks are almost entirely empty when he gets there. A few people at the far end of the room are playing a card game, and a woman is reading a book on the top cot of her bunk a little closer to the door, but it’s otherwise dark and quiet and easy enough to slip in there relatively unseen. Prompto grabs the overnight bag he stuffed under his pillow that morning and then hightails it to the communal washroom, which is blessedly void of life and affords him the chance to slow down, no longer concerned with drawing unwanted attention to his persistent tremor. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop shaking. Is he in shock? He didn’t think it was possible to remain in shock this long after a traumatic event.

Assuming he must be cold instead, Prompto grabs a fresh towel off the shelf by the door and retreats to the shower stall at the very end of the room. Thankfully, the outpost was built with some honest thought about the comfort of its occupants in mind because the stall hosts a small bench between its door and the shower curtain, somewhere he can drop his things without the fear of getting them wet. He tosses his towel and his bag onto the bench before he pulls of his jacket and his sweater. However, when he reaches down to remove his belt and hip holster, he has trouble getting the strap undone. He tightened it too much when he put it on earlier and he’s still trembling too hard to get the damn thing to cooperate.

Once upon a time, he didn’t understand the potency that a ‘trigger’ could possess, so he is completely taken by surprise when fighting with the strap brings him immediately back to Verstael’s room. The memories of his recent ordeal hit him like a tidal wave, his initial fruitless struggle with the rope, the taunting slip of the strap between his fingers, the pressure around his thigh where Ardyn had gripped his leg to thwart his first attempt at escape—so many painful details wash over him all at once. He can see it—he can _feel_ it as if he were really there again.

He closes his eyes but still can’t get the eerie glow of the computer screen out of his head, or the smell of sweat and something else as equally unpleasant, or the unwelcome weight between his legs as Ardyn pushes into him, just taking and taking and _taking_ without any regard whatsoever for what stupid, _foolish_ Prompto Argentum thought about the utter hell that was currently unfolding all around him—

His mind continues along this frightening downward spiral until it hits something of a dead end, an abrupt transition that is punctuated by the dancing specks of muted colours that slowly resolve themselves into the tiled floor beneath his feet.

Prompto comes back to himself leaning forward in his seat on the bench, elbows braced against his knees, head hanging low between them. His face is wet with tears, his temples are throbbing with a mounting headache, and he’s breathing harder now than he ever did before as a plump little kid running laps around the block for the first time in his miserable life. _Gods_ , he’s such a mess…It’s truly a wonder Ardyn wanted anything to do with him.

As Prompto slowly straightens up in his seat, still struggling to breathe correctly, he dares to entertain the idea that maybe Ardyn wouldn’t have wanted to touch him in the first place if he had still been packing on the pounds like he did in his youth. He was more of a blob than a person back then, someone who attracted hardly any attention at all. Then again…then again, if Prompto hadn’t painstakingly shaved off all that extra weight, he never would’ve qualified to train for Noct’s Crownsguard. In fact, he wouldn’t have mustered the strength to talk to Noctis in the first place once they started high school together…

Prompto doesn’t want to think about how dull his life would be right now if he’d never gotten the chance to befriend Noctis.

Thinking of Noctis gives his mind something solid to latch onto as his heaving chest gradually regains its natural rhythm. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, trying his damnedest to pull himself together, but it feels as though a small eternity passes before he sluggishly pulls his thigh strap loose. In fact, he’s got this whole-body achy feeling now, like someone ran him over with the Regalia as he shuffles out of the rest of his clothes, grabs the soap from his bag, and cranks the heat in the shower to max.

The outpost doesn’t exactly have a lot of hot water to go around, so his shower winds up being lukewarm at best, but he’s hardly cognisant of the whole process of washing himself and then toweling himself dry. This peculiar haze persists as he pulls on a t-shirt and his cotton draw-string pajama pants, then collects his things and steps out of his stall. He doesn’t think of much of anything until he glances toward the sinks along the adjacent wall and is mildly surprised to discover that he’s not alone.

A woman—Catol, he thinks she’s called—is standing with one of her hands outstretched, frozen halfway to the tap. She is looking upward, squinting at something just above the mirror. Prompto follows her line of regard but only _sees_ what he’s supposed to be looking at when the small white figure finally moves.

Realizing she has company, Catol glances over at Prompto, smiles, and says, “It’s a snowbird!”

Dumbfounded, Prompto blinks at her—and it feels like the slowest blink in the history of blinks at the pitiful rate his brain is running right now—because that looks _nothing_ like a bird. “I mean…I think that’s a moth?”

For some reason, this earns him a laugh, although Catol is kind enough to explain what she finds so funny about his response: “It’s a butterfly, actually, but its common name is ‘the snowbird.’ I think it’s the only insect that’s managed to survive in this mountain range since the start of the prolonged winter, besides a few species of worms.”

Butterflies are kind of cool, but Prompto still doesn’t have the greatest affinity for insects in general, so he just nods his head and makes his way back to the barracks.

He deposits everything against the wall beside his bed when he returns and shoves both the bottle of water and warm thermos that he finds on his pillow off to one side before he collapses onto the mattress. Rolling under his blanket is some mystifying affair; he doesn’t know he achieves it with how heavy his limbs feel right now. Actually, he hasn’t the slightest idea how he managed to make it from the showers to his bed without passing out along the way, only half conscious of the fact that Serge is suddenly leaning over him, gently shaking Prompto’s shoulder as he tries to ask him some garbled question.

Prompto ignores him in favor of slipping away into the dreamscape.

As with his last dream, this one is pretty nebulous. He only remembers snippets of it much later, such as the fact that he was surrounded by his friends in a field of gold or that he held the Bow of the Clever in his hands instead of a pistol. Near the end, he was drowning in light again, holding his camera up to his eye in the hopes of diluting the brightness—and through it he could barely discern the same woman from before, although this time he noticed that she had paper-thin wings that shimmered with every color of the rainbow.

When he wakes, it’s to the warm, gooey sensation he usually gets from a potion—which only begins to make sense when he sees Serge sitting on his bed, his arm outstretched as a blue-green bottles disintegrates over Prompto’s chest.

Confused, Prompto squints at his friend in the semi-darkness and asks, “What’s going on?”

“You’ve got another fever, mate,” Serge whispers.

Carefully, Prompto rolls over onto his side to better face his companion. He does indeed feel weak and weary, the way that he usually does whenever he’s ill, although that feeling is fading fast under the potion’s influence. “Why does this keep happening?” he mutters to himself as he rubs his sore eyes.

Serge obviously doesn’t have an answer for him, although he does have a question: “What is a ‘ _metelyk’_?”

“…Come again?”

“ ‘ _Metelyk’_? You keep repeating that word, over and over again.”

“I don’t know,” Prompto replies, eager to succumb to the tantalizing pull of sleep. With a yawn, he asks, “What time is it?”

“Still bedtime,” Serge sighs as he pushes himself up onto his feet. “Good night,” he adds as an afterthought as he climbs into the next bed over.

Prompto blinks once, then twice, then finally drifts back to sleep.

Thankfully, he doesn’t dream at all about Ardyn that night.

~***~

Aranea doesn’t believe in bad luck.

She does, however, believe in sabotage.

When that Iron Giant put a noticeable dent in her airship, she accepted that as just another run-of-the-mill daemon attack, of which they had already suffered several. It was par for the course, really, given that they landed in the dead of night in an area they hadn’t yet secured. What _wasn’t_ normal with this situation was the additional damage that had been dealt to their ship sometime in the last couple of hours.

What was even _weirder_ was that they have no idea what caused it.

“Well…” Jan sighs, prodding at the large gash in the pilot’s control panel with the back of his pen, as if testing to see if anything had melted on the inside. He held a pad of paper in his other hand, upon which he was writing a running list of what they would need to finish this latest batch of repairs. “It doesn’t look as though a laser blast was behind this. That’s about all that I can say at the moment.”

Aranea had already guessed as much, given the lack of warped metal or molten wires. This looked more as though someone had taken a good stab at it with something… _large_.

“And nobody heard or saw _anything_?” she mutters. Once they’d secured the second outpost and switched on the external lights, it seemed quite impossible that anyone would be able to slip past their security system unseen. Krist was still skimming through their video recordings leading up to this disaster, but she has a feeling he won’t find some random soldier or researcher wandering onto their airship in the dead of night. Everyone that once worked at the facility is either dead or daemonified now; there are no ‘normal’ people still around to interfere with their operation.

Sighing again, Jan shakes his head.

“Alright then…” There was no point in allowing this to get on her nerves. They still had a lot of work to do before they could leave anyway, and if worse came to worst, they had enough snowmobiles to trek the long way back to Gralea, even if that proved difficult with the dwindling daylight. Nothing could stop them from getting out of here when the time came to cut it and run. “Set up a rotation for the airship. I want at least two people stationed here at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And try to finish your list by the end of the hour. The sooner Captain Kincaid knows what we need, the better.”

“He’s already waiting on the line, ma’am,” comes a voice from behind her.

Aranea glances over her shoulder at Cpl. Carmine and then checks the time on her wristwatch, wondering why the Captain decided to call her so early. He must have an update on the situation with Argentum and Serge.

Jan has already resumed his assessment of the control panel by the time she waves at him in dismissal and follows Carmine back into the main observatory of the outpost. Biggs has already beaten her to the radio, probing Wedge on whatever information he was able to gather on his last trip down to the facility.

“I need to borrow that,” Aranea cuts in, holding her hand out for the mic.

Biggs relinquishes it immediately, parking himself in a chair beside the main speaker to listen in on her conversation from the sideline.

Pressing the button on the mic, Aranea asks, admittedly worried, “Did you find the kid?”

She can hear Wedge clearing his throat on the other end before he says, _“No, ma’am. He and Cpl. Serge made it back to us in their own time.”_

Aranea doesn’t bother holding back her sigh of relief. As capable as the Argentum kid had proven himself to be, he was a civilian first and foremost. She had a responsibility to keep him in good health until she could return him to his friends in Lestallum.

“How come they missed the rendezvous?” she asks, knowing that Serge was more of a stickler for protocol than half the other people on her team; his little hiccup at the palace many years ago didn’t count. He would never forgive himself for losing track of the time like that.

_“They were delayed by Chancellor Izunia.”_

For a moment, neither one of them says anything.

It’s not often that Aranea’s blood runs cold, but it does then, the same way it did when Argentum first mentioned the Chancellor’s name a few days ago. Back then, she had chalked the kid’s ‘vision’ up to PTSD because she thought there was no way in hell Ardyn would have any reason to return to the facility now that his old buddy Besithia was dead and gone. Besides, King Noctis was trapped in the Crystal now, which had apparently been Ardyn’s master plan all along, so why was the asshole still running around making life miserable for everyone? Didn’t he have anything better to do?

Apparently not.

“Shit,” Aranea mutters. Then, realizing Wedge can’t hear her, thumbs down the button on the mic to mutter it again for his benefit.

 _“I couldn’t agree more,”_ he replies.

“What did Ardyn want?” she asks. Hadn’t the Chancellor already gotten what he wanted in Zegnautus? Why the hell was he still antagonizing the King’s retinue?

_“Unfortunately, we don’t know yet. The Chancellor incapacitated Cpl. Serge before pursuing Mr. Argentum. I was going to ask the lad over dinner what transpired between them, but he’s fallen ill again. Passed out before he could eat. Serge gave him a potion a few minutes ago to set him to rights again.”_

“ ‘Ill’ as in…?”

_“Not with the scourge, ma’am.”_

Thank the gods for small mercies…

From what Amicitia and Scientia described to her during their brief encounter in Lestallum, Ardyn appeared to be harboring the disease—harboring but not _succumbing_ to it. She had always had her doubts that he was human, so maybe the answer to his peculiar condition was buried somewhere in that little mystery, but Aranea didn’t know if that prevented him from passing the disease along. If Argentum were to find himself infected, he would be fresh out of luck. With the Oracle dead—and her brother too, which meant no other Oracle could be born of their bloodline—Aranea didn’t think there was anyone left in the world who could cure him.

“That’s a relief,” she replies. “Did the kid say anything to Serge before they made it back to the outpost?”

_“Only two things of note: first, that the lad was quite confused about whatever it was the Chancellor was trying to tell him, and, second, that their encounter ‘got a little violent’.”_

By ‘a little,’ Aranea’s sure Argentum really meant ‘a lot.’ Whatever Ardyn did in life, he did it hard and fast and with an unhealthy amount of zeal. He was, quite literally, the only viper Aranea had ever seen masquerading around so seamlessly in human skin—and that was _really_ saying something, considering the den of iniquity that was Aldercapt’s court. Once Ardyn smelt blood in the water, you were a goner, although you wouldn’t know that until it was too late.

Which was why Aranea found it somewhat puzzling that Ardyn had made his presence known to Argentum twice already without having killed him.

Obviously, Ardyn had something much worse in mind for the poor boy.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Aranea says, “Make sure Blondie is never alone, okay? We’re going to send him home as soon as we can, but that won’t be for a while yet, regrettably.”

_“Should we keep him out of the valley?”_

“Technically, this whole place is Ardyn’s old stomping ground. If he knows we’re here, then he knows we’re holing up in the outposts. Just make sure the kid has backup on hand whenever he needs it.”

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

She wishes she could do more for the poor guy right now, but her options are limited, especially with the added damage to her ship…

Now that she thinks about it, didn’t Ardyn used to haul around a beast of a greatsword whenever he felt like haunting the sparring hall at the palace? It looked about the right size and shape as the hole in the control panel Jan was still agonizing over.

“That _bastard_ …” Aranea hisses, ignoring the quizzical look Bigg shoots her from his seat by the speaker. Activating the mic again, she says, “To be honest with you, I think Ardyn paid us a visit not too long ago.”

_“You’re certain? How would he get from our end of the facility to yours in less than a day?”_

“He probably has his own airship. Or maybe he has a land vehicle that’s faster than our own—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re going to have to call for backup and a more suitable ride out of here sooner than I anticipated.”

_“As you wish, ma’am, but we can’t leave until we’ve found Zephyr.”_

For the first time since she was so abruptly roused from her sleep tonight, Aranea smiles. She glances out the outpost window at the stretch of darkness that sinks into the valley beyond, thinking back on what they found just the other day. Then she says, “I think we might’ve found it. We’ve uncovered a 16th building along the chain. This one is completely subterranean.”

 _“I see,”_ Wedge replies. She can hear the faintest hint of excitement in his voice.

If dealing with Zephyr was the only thing they accomplished before Ardyn brought their operation to a screeching halt, they could all leave here happy.

“I’ll update you as soon as I can with whatever we find inside, but if it isn’t Zephyr, I’ll eat Ardyn’s goddamn hat.”

There’s a brief burst of static over the radio as Wedge snorts out a laugh.

“Keep me posted on what the kid says about Ardyn,” she continues, “because we’ll have to take a different approach to this whole operation depending on whether he’s here just to stave off his boredom or if he also happens to know about Zephyr.”

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

“Thanks, Wedge. Take care,” she says, polishing off the conversation. Then she hands the mic back to Biggs. “It’s all yours.”

Biggs tips his hat at her in appreciation before Aranea wanders over to the other side of the observatory, staring out the main window to where their airship is parked in a field of light. Jan and one of her other engineers are currently hauling out broken material and dumping it on a tarp they set out beside the ramp. Even at a distance, she can tell how phenomenally peeved Jan looks with the additional repairs he now has to deal with.

Trust Ardyn to find a way to make a bad situation even worse…

“Something to drink, ma’am?” one of her other officers asks as he approaches her, holding a steaming cup of coffee in either hand.

By the gods, she’s practically _dying_ for a shot of caffeine, so she takes the proffered cup with a smile and together they make a small toast to Erro.

Whatever Ardyn tries to throw at them, she knows her merry band of misfits are more than capable of handling it.

They’ve always been a vicious bunch of hooligans, even since before she brought them all into her fold.

~***~

When Ardyn returns, he kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, lying stretched out on his back, his hat perched over his face to block out the glow from the computer screen in the corner.

He’d only left the boy the smallest margin for success, with a length of rope that was almost too short to accommodate him and a dagger balanced precariously on the edge of the bedside table, but Prompto somehow prevailed. Ardyn applauds him, really, though he wishes he was there to watch his young companion squirm through his predicament. Over the heavy musk of sex, he can still smell the boy’s adrenaline and cold sweat; certainly, he fought hard and long for his freedom, and Ardyn is satiated enough that he’s willing to give Prompto that for now, even if Ardyn had been looking forward to another round, one that would’ve _really_ put Verstael’s old bedframe to the test.

Ardyn doesn’t need to sleep, but he enjoys a light doze from time to time. He allows his mind to drift, dreaming of a young, supple body, warm on the outside and deliciously hot within, still a little slow to fill out in the way that an adult’s should. Though Prompto’s frame is somewhat smaller than his father’s, he has many of Verstael’s best attributes, such as his fair complexion, his clear blue eyes, and the most tantalizing jut of his hips, even if the skin around his waist is still faintly marred by the stretchmarks of his childhood. It felt good to lose himself in such a familiar body. Ardyn hasn’t really indulged himself in much of anyone else since Verstael waved off his advances for the last time with the excuse that the years were finally starting to catch up on him and his aching joints.

Even though Verstael was the closest like-minded individual Ardyn could ever see as a partner, the man’s persistence in developing a weapon to slay the gods made him too much of a personal threat to keep around, otherwise Ardyn would have offered him the chance to become a _real_ immortal. While Verstael wanted to put an end to all celestial beings, there was only one god that Ardyn wanted to wipe from existence, and if he managed to vanquish the True King upon his return, Ardyn would know that he had all the power he needed to strike Bahamut down from the heavens himself. Verstael’s aid in that arena was not required. In fact, being more or less a god himself at this point, Ardyn wouldn’t stand for mortal opposition.

This is one of the ways in which Prompto can be considered an improvement upon his progenitor. What he is lacking in social graces, he makes up for in morals; he has neither Verstael’s pride nor his hunger for power, a small blessing given the boy’s little temper tantrum the other day. In fact, it would take no effort at all to teach the boy how to converse in a way that is pleasing to a veritable god. Of course, it helps that Ardyn already enjoys the rousing quips he’s heard Prompto toss out in the battlefield. The boy has also already demonstrated that he can keep his mouth firmly shut where it matters most, that being in the bedroom, as Ardyn prefers that his partners keep their minds empty of any thoughts they might mistakenly assume are worth vocalizing during sex. The only thing that Ardyn wants to hear from them in the heat of the moment are the animal sounds that naturally come with such a primitive act.

Ardyn knows he shouldn’t be thinking of sex again so soon after scratching that particular itch. It only serves to whip up his appetite, which is already voracious at the best of times.

Moving his hat from his face to his chest, Ardyn turns his head toward his companion’s pillow. The sheets are still rumpled on the other side of the bed, twisted with passion and fear. Half of the rope hangs yet from the corner post; Ardyn had already collected the other half from the floor on his way in and stuffed it into his coat pocket to keep as a momento. It’s been a while since he’s bedded a virgin. Over two thousand years, in fact. Surely, that must be a world record.

Knowing that there a few matters he must see to before his next visit with the Argentum boy, Ardyn pushes himself upright and swings his feet off the bed. He takes the effort to tie up his shoes properly this time and then replaces his hat on his head, thinking of all the wonderful mischief that lies before him as he makes his way to the door.

On his way out, he carefully replaces the office chair in the threshold to prevent the door from closing properly behind him.

After all, he wants Prompto to know that he is welcome here at any time.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much to Prompto's dismay, he's going to be running into Ardyn again sooner than he thinks.
> 
> Just...just hold on there, sweetheart. Hold on...


	7. The fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome back, my dears! Are you ready for some more emotional turmoil on Prompto's part, because I sure as heck am!...

~***~

There’s a moment when Prompto wakes where he almost forgets everything that happened the day before.

He’s warm and relaxed and only half-conscious of the sound of other people climbing out of bed. He sighs and rolls over onto his back, thinking first of the cold outside and then of what Ignis and Gladio must be doing in Lestallum, wondering if they’re perhaps enjoying the last few days of the sweltering heat. He misses that heat a little, even if the sunburn on his shoulders has yet to transition into a halfway decent tan.

As he thinks of Lestallum, his mind drifts to the outlook where they met Ardyn for the second time, a man made up of empty smiles and cloying charm, who rattled off riddles and nursery rhymes as if he believed he was dealing with mere children... 

As soon as his mind conjures this image of Ardyn, an uncomfortable weight settles over Prompto’s chest. His earlier, much happier memories of Lestallum fade into the background as the pain and humiliation of his last encounter with the man claw their way to the forefront of his mind.

Prompto opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the bunk above him. He wonders how he managed to sleep half as well as he did last night. The potion probably helped, though he wishes Serge hadn’t wasted one on him, even if he had been suffering from another fever.

When he finally sits upright, he notices the thermos and the bottle of water still lying there beside his pillow. The soup inside the thermos is lukewarm by now, but he polishes it off anyway. He doesn’t know why his health is suddenly on the rocks, but he needs to keep his strength up; Aranea and her crew don’t deserve to have an invalid to worry about on top of everything else.

Around him, the early risers are getting ready for the day as the officers from the night shift shuffle wearily into their respective beds. Prompto follows suit with the former, stripping out of his pajamas and pulling on his winter gear before he sits back down on his bed to slip on his boots. Lacing them up isn’t as much of a problem as he feared it would be—he’s not shaking anymore, thank the gods—but when he spots his empty holster sitting atop his travel bag by the wall, he freezes. 

In his mind’s eye, he can still see the strap hanging off the bedside table, swaying gently just beyond his fingertips.

Prompto doesn’t know how long he sits there staring at it. He’s stuck in this trance until Tantum leans against the frame of his bunk and says, “The Captain would like to have a word with you, kid.”

Prompto nods, tucking his Alstroemeria into his right boot before he grabs his camera and follows everyone into the observatory. 

“Feeling any better, lad?” Wedge asks as soon as Prompto steps into the room. He hands Prompto a cup of what he assumes is coffee and then waves him over to a bench in the corner. 

Outside the observatory window, dawn is breaking over the mountains, setting the valley ablaze. Prompto takes a sip of his coffee and wonders how many sunrises they have left to go before they never see one again. “Much,” he finally replies.

“Glad to hear it.” The Captain follows his line of regard, taking a moment to appreciate the sunrise. He looks content at first, then a touch sad before he returns his attention to Prompto. “You passed out last night before I could ask you about your discussion with Ardyn Izunia. Would you mind elaborating on that now?”

Prompto hesitates, taking another sip as he tries to ignore how his stomach clenches in fear and loathing at the sound of Ardyn’s name. When he lowers the steaming cup to his lap, he curls both hands around it tightly, uncaring of the biting heat as he braces himself for what’s shaping up to be a difficult conversation. “...We talked about the history of Lucis,” he finally says.

Wedge frowns at him, curious. “Oh?”

“Ardyn has this...well, this _really_ crazy idea that the Founder King had an older brother called ‘Adagium.’ Does that name ring a bell to you?”

The Captain shakes his head.

“ ‘Adagium’ is also the name of some legendary monster living on the island of Angelgard,” Prompto elaborates, “but I don’t know if the King’s brother and this monster are supposed to be one in the same. Ardyn said that the brother figured out how to maintain the Starscourge before anyone else, which doesn’t sound like something a monster would really care about.”

Wedge shrugs, as if he doesn’t quite agree with that notion. “Some of the worst men in history started off with only the best intentions. Emperor Aldercapt, for example, was an entirely different man in his youth. Both ‘Adagiums’ could therefore be the same person.”

Considering the possibility of that being true, Prompto reluctantly nods. He’s having a hard time believing that even one ‘Adagium’ was ever real. If they were, he suspects he would’ve heard about them already either in school or from Noctis or Ignis, his usual go-to guys for any information pertaining to the royal family.

Then again, Noct’s imprisonment was a very _real_ problem that somehow evaded the history books, so perhaps there was some substance to these legends after all.

“What else did he say about this Adagium fellow?” Wedge asks, pressing onward.

Prompto shrugs because he really doesn’t know what to say. He and Ardyn had barely begun their conversation before everything went off the rails.

“He didn’t say anything else,” Prompto replies, uneasy, “but I guess that’s my fault. I kept asking about the Crystal. He finally got fed up with my interruptions and attacked me.” He pauses for a moment, mulling over how to explain what happened next and hoping Wedge doesn’t press for more details. “I was unconscious up until a short while before I bumped into Serge, so that’s about all that I can tell you.”

“Hm,” Wedge grunts into his coffee cup, casting his gaze on his subordinates as they go about rousing themselves for the day. When he looks to Prompto again, he says, “Well, you can ask just about anyone here—pretty much everyone we’ve recruited was stationed at the palace in Gralea at one time or another—Izunia might be as far from a saint as a person can get, but he’s never been quick to lose his temper. He lashed out at you because he was eager to, not because of anything you might’ve said or done.”

Prompto wonders if that’s true. It was hard not to think that his conversation with Ardyn could have ended differently if he had simply sat there and listened to Ardyn’s stupid fairy tale. Maybe that wouldn’t have prevented Ardyn from assaulting him in the long run, but…but Prompto hadn’t been _prepared_ for it then. Maybe if he had been given more time to analyze Ardyn’s behavior toward him, or maybe if he could’ve figured out the nature of Ardyn’s relationship with Verstael beforehand, _then_ he could have at least braced himself for the likelihood of Ardyn…of Ardyn…

When Prompto’s hands start to feel cold and numb despite being curled around a steaming hot cup of coffee, he realizes he’s dangerously close to spiraling into another mental breakdown. He tries to pull himself back from those terrifying depths by sipping at his coffee again and then softly saying, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You’ve already been plenty helpful, lad.”

“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Serge says as he approaches, looking remarkably chipper at this hour of the morning. “Wouldn’t have found that room the other day without him.”

Wedge quickly polishes off the last of his coffee and rises to his feet. “If the power is still out, we might not make it inside today. Here’s hoping otherwise.”

Prompto’s stomach does a little flip when he realizes that the ‘room’ they’re referring to is Verstael’s personal quarters—the last place on Eos he wanted to be right now. 

As Wedge wanders off to finish preparing for their next outing, Serge takes this opportunity to steal his empty seat on the bench. “The first order of the day is to show the Captain to the General’s quarters,” he says, “but then we’re going to help the others track down a few prototypes elsewhere in the facility. Are you feeling up for the trip or would you rather stay here and rest?”

Just hearing that they’re going to be occupied somewhere else in the facility relieves some of the tension in Prompto’s body. He already knows he’ll join them today, despite his discomfort, because as tempting as it would be to sit this mission out, he really doesn’t feel any safer in the outpost. He just finds it hard to believe that Ardyn wouldn’t track him down here eventually if he were really all that keen on having a repeat performance of their last encounter.

Dear _gods_ does he ever wish Aranea’s airship was still up and running…

“I’ll come with you,” Prompto replies, trying to steel himself for the long and potentially problematic day ahead of him. “but…there’s something I forgot to mention to the Captain. About the room.”

Serge tilts his head to one side curiously.

“I woke up on the other side of the door,” Prompto confesses, glossing over the unnecessary details; admitting to this alone is already enough of a struggle. “In Verstael’s bedroom, I mean. The power was on then, so I jammed a chair in the doorway. If Ardyn’s returned, he probably removed it, but I _really_ hope not because there was a computer in there, one that you might find useful.”

“Damn straight we will,” Serge replies, grinning, though his expression quickly morphs into one of mild confusion. “But why did he drag you in there?”

Prompto shifts in his seat. He was hoping Serge wouldn’t latch onto that particular detail, although he supposes anyone would want to know why Ardyn felt the need to trap an intruder in a room that was potentially full of juicy secrets.

That awful ‘far away’ feeling is beginning to creep up on Prompto again as he stares down into his coffee cup. Trying to evade its cold grasp, he scrambles for an explanation and settles on the shortest response, his voice sounding distant in his own ears as he says, “To torment me, I think.”

“How so?”

“He...he wants to remind me that I’m nothing more than Verstael’s clone.”

“ _Ah_ …” Serge hisses softly between his teeth, seeming to understand. He glances over at the window, squinting into the glare of the rising sun. “The Chancellor’s quite the villain, isn’t he? I’ve seen him pit dignitaries against each other with barely a word, so don’t take what he says to heart. You’re not a stand-in for the General.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“I’ll let the Captain know about the door.” Serge gives him a gentle pat on the back and rises to his feet again. Just as he’s about to step away, though, he pauses to spare one last glance at Prompto. Then he says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when things took a turn for the worse with Izunia. All of us here have every intention of returning you safely to Lestallum as soon as we can, whatever it takes.”

Even though Prompto doubts Serge understands just how bizarrely omnipotent Ardyn seemed to be or the fact that Ardyn could have killed Serge without so much as a second thought while he was incapacitated the other day, the sentiment grounds Prompto a little more firmly in the here and now. 

Ardyn might not consider Prompto worthy of any basic human dignity but Aranea and her people certainly did.

“I really appreciate that,” Prompto replies sincerely.

Serge winks at him and then takes off after Wedge to update him on the situation with Verstael’s room.

Prompto sits there for a while longer, gradually collecting himself as he finishes off his coffee. He then wolfs down a breakfast bar when Tantum wanders by to offer him one and finally joins the rest of Wedge’s team in the hangar. 

Vance waves him over as soon as she spots him, once again handing out supplies for the trip. She returns Prompto’s knapsack to him with an extra potion to make up for the one he used the other day, as well as quite a few lumen flares.

As he’s tucking his camera into one of the pack’s outer side pockets, she holds up a holstered pistol and says, “Hip or chest?”

“Chest,” he says quickly.

Vance hands him the pistol and then grads both a chest harness and an SMG for him off the rack behind her. Prompto slips on his gear as he idly watches everyone else prepare for the day. Serge waves him over once he’s done, resuming his position at the wheel of their snowmobile.

“Are you sure you want to pair up with me again?” Prompto asks as he straddles the seat, settling in behind his companion. “You usually wind up concussed whenever you’re with me.”

Serge laughs, revving the engine. “I wind up concussed an awful all on my lonesome, too. Trust me, it’s normal fare for the bloody sort of work we usually get up to.”

Honestly, Prompto wonders what kind of adventures Aranea and her band of mercenaries got up to on the regular. He remembers that she mentioned wanting to lend a hand to the local hunters back when she assisted them in the Vesperpool, but that couldn’t be the only kind of gig her crew went after, otherwise they might as well just be…hunters.

Prompto’s just about to ask Serge to elaborate when his companion floors the gas and flies off after the three other snowmobiles that dart out into the cold. 

They make their way down to the third building again, where they’re met with the usual diminished security response. An uncomfortable weight settles in the pit of Prompto’s stomach as he picks off the last few MTs guarding the main door, but this relatively low level of anxiety is peanuts in comparison to the crippling fear he experienced last night or earlier this morning. As much as he doesn’t want to run into Ardyn again, there’s nothing he can really do to mitigate the chances of that happening until they leave for Lestallum, so he knows he’s better off keeping his mind focused solely on the task at hand.

Which is easier said than done when Serge leads their group to room X3-15. Prompto feels like he’s getting a bit of tunnel vision as they make their way down the now bright corridor to Verstael’s quarters. In fact, that familiar fear begins to settle in his bones when they reach the threshold to the dining room. He stops dead in his tracks once he glances at the other end of the room where the chair he jammed in the doorway to Verstael’s bedroom still stands before he quickly turns away. He decides to loiter in the corridor, pretending to listen to Vance and another woman named Wentworth chat about some supply order Aranea called in that morning as the five other members of their group venture further inside.

Leaning back against the wall beside the door, Prompto tries to keep his breathing pattern slow and even as he waits for Serge to return. But as he waits, he begins to agonize over what his companions might think if they happen to glance at the bed and see it unmade. He can’t remember if he left part of the rope tied to the headboard or if the whole thing came off when he cut it. Would they simply assume he was restrained when he was kept in there or would they know that Ardyn had sex with him? He supposes they might. After all, why else would someone tie a prisoner to a bed if they didn’t intend to sexually assault them?

Just as Prompto’s heart rate begins to pick up, Serge scares him half to death by popping back into the corridor, Tantum close on his heels. He’s squinting at a sheet of paper in his hands, one that is covered with what Prompto recognizes as Wedge’s scrawled handwriting. On the back is drawn a rather intricate looking map.

“The main lights are out in the bedroom,” Serge says, still staring at the note, “so it’s as dark as hell in there, but it looks as though we’ve still lucked out today, mates. The General’s computer is hooked up to its own generator. Captain Kincaid and the others are going to work on it while we track down these prototypes.”

Prompto sincerely hopes that ‘ _as dark as hell_ ’ means nobody could really see the evidence of the nightmare he’d endured in there.

Wentworth leans over Serge’s shoulder to glance at the sheet as he flips it over to look at the map. Pointing to a room in the top left corner of the page, one that’s been circled in red, she asks, “Where’s that?”

Serge nods his head down the corridor. “Pretty much on the opposite end of the building. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us, so let’s get going.”

Putting a little distance between himself and room X3-15 gives Prompto the opportunity to calm himself as they continue their journey through the building. Serge keeps them moving at a clipped pace, only slowing to attend to whatever magitek they encounter along the way or to hack the lock on any door that he doesn’t already have the code for. Even so, it takes them about an hour to make their way to the actual weapons depot, a series of large hangars separated by several locked doors, the kind that has Serge cursing under his breath every few minutes. This goes on for quite some time until Serge halts midway through one hangar, glances irritably at his watch, and says, “Who votes that we take a shortcut?” 

Initially, his question is met with silence. Then Vance clears her throat and says, “How bad does this ‘shortcut’ have to be that you’d feel the need to ask for a vote?”

“If you’re afraid of heights, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Tantum scrunches up his face, like he might very well be on the verge of harboring a phobia, but eventually he shrugs and mutters, “I’ll survive.”

With a word of assent from everyone else, Serge double checks his map and then leads them to a stairwell at the far end of the hangar. He pries open the door for it with little to no effort and begins their trek up several narrow flights of stairs. His detour takes them to a rather dilapidated looking network of catwalks high above the hangar that appear to be missing their railings in some places.

“I have so many regrets right now…” Tantum says as Serge directs them to the longest catwalk. It leads straight across the hangar to a door high up in the rafters.

“Do you want to head back down?” Serge asks.

“...No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have my regrets.”

“Fair enough.” Serge gestures down the length of the catwalk. “The surveillance room at that end is connected to the hangar we want. This way, we can bypass the security doors on the ground level.”

“I’m game,” Vance chuckles as she starts off down the catwalk, keeping a hand on the railing to her right as she goes.

After she’s a few slow and steady feet into her journey, Wentworth deems it safe enough to take off after her.

Serge then glances at Tantum and asks, “Do you want to stick in the middle, mate?”

Tantum nods and follows suit.

Serge turns to Prompto next. “How are you holding up?” he asks.

Prompto wonders if his own distaste for heights is showing. It must be if Serge feels the need to ask, but considering how often he’d been forced to address this particular fear while traveling with Noctis and the others, he’s already gotten used to facing it head on. There’s no point in complaining now, really.

“I’m good,” Prompto says. “Go ahead.”

Serge hesitates for a moment, then nods and takes off after the rest of his team.

Prompto figures it’s a pretty straightforward journey from then on out when he eventually steps onto the catwalk. 

The metal creaks in a somewhat alarming way as they move across the catwalk. At one point, Vance trips, which jolts the entire structure, but then she carefully pushes herself to her feet again and laughs, “We’re almost there!”

Which is a pretty weird remark as far as last words go, because no sooner does she speak when the catwalk groans low and menacing before giving out beneath them.

It doesn’t register for Prompto that they’re falling until the first few seconds after the world is swept out from under his feet. Someone screams—Tantum, he thinks—and there’s a sudden weightlessness in the pit of his stomach that usually precedes a difficult plunge. Then it clicks in his head that they’re probably high enough up that they’ll need a phoenix down once they hit the ground, which might not be possible unless someone remains conscious long enough to save the rest of the group.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Prompto’s brain then goes completely blank, overwhelmed by fear.

He therefore doesn’t know what to think about the arm that curls around his waist before his downward trajectory is suddenly flipped onto another axis. He now feels as though he’s falling _forward_ and in a much more abrupt manner, one that fortunately doesn’t end with him pancaked against the ground. Instead, he lands on his feet, then collapses to his knees once the support around his waist disappears.

Prompto reaches the end of his journey before anyone else, kneeling on the last few remaining feet of the catwalk suspended by the surveillance room just as the rest of the metal framework collides with the hangar floor. Holding onto the railing beside him and turning halfway around, he glances over the warped lip of the platform at the destruction down below. Nobody looks bloody or mangled, but each of his four companions are lying tangled up with the broken metal panels of the catwalk, eyes closed and eerily still.

Prompto wants to call out to them, to see if someone is conscious, but his voice sticks in his throat when he finally registers the figure standing beside him. He stares first at the man’s carefully polished dress shoes and then up along his pinstriped pants, until finally Prompto tilts his head back far enough to see Ardyn Izunia staring down at him with his usual condescending smile.

“Time is of the essence, is it not?” The man quips as he glances briefly at Prompto’s fallen companions. Then, much to Prompto’s surprise, he continues down the catwalk to the surveillance room. “But by all means,” he says as he opens the door, “leave them to their fate, if you so desire.”

Prompto has a million questions right now, but his heart has suddenly lodged itself up against his vocal cords. He also can’t formulate a complete sentence as he agonizes over the unfortunate state of his companions, his hands moving more out of reflex than anything else as he slips off his knapsack and pulls out a phoenix down. All those hours he spent training with Gladio and Ignis are put to good use as his body switches to autopilot, pulling his right arm back to chuck the curative at his nearest companion, that being Sgt. Vance.

His aim isn’t as accurate as it usually is, seeing as he was aiming for her chest; the phoenix down comes crashing down on her left foot instead, which is still better than nothing. She doesn’t move immediately, which worries him, but then she sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and sits upright, looking somewhat disoriented as she stares at Wentworth’s crumpled form beside her, like she doesn’t know quite what to make of it.

After a few seconds have passed, Vance snaps out of her daze, tearing open her own knapsack to pull out her phoenix downs. She throws one at Wentworth and the other at Tantum, scrambling to her feet to finally attend to Serge. She pulls a phoenix down from his sack and cracks it open over his head, then sits back on the ground, watching her companions anxiously, no doubt hoping she revived them in time.

Still kneeling on the catwalk, Prompto leans against the railing and mutters a small prayer to whichever of the Six might be listening.

Fortunately, the curatives are able to revitalize his companions. Each one sits up in turn, groggy and bewildered, pushing aside bits of the broken railing as they struggle to untangle themselves from the wreckage. 

Prompto slumps somewhat in relief.

Now that their companions are in the clear, Vance rises to her feet and glances up at Prompto. Shouting, she asks, “Are you alright?”

Prompto hesitates a moment, but ultimately he calls back, “Yes.”

That’s an ugly lie, of course, because he hasn’t forgotten that Ardyn was here—that Ardyn is likely _still_ here, waiting for him in the surveillance room. And while Prompto can’t be sure that Ardyn didn’t somehow orchestrate this little accident, given that he was close enough at hand to intervene when he did is certainly suspicious. Clearly, the danger here is far from passed.

The only thing stopping Prompto from clutching his other phoenix down close to his chest and hopping off the catwalk to join his companions on the ground is the fact that _if_ Ardyn really wanted to talk to him right now, nothing was going to stop the man from finding another way to separate them. As such, Prompto is pretty much trapped up here and he knows it.

What the _hell_ is he supposed to do?

Once Serge is standing again, he dusts off his trousers and shouts, “Stay in the security room. We’ll take the long route and work our way back to you.”

Numbly, Prompto nods. Then he grabs onto the railing and pulls himself to his feet, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder as he turns to stare at the door. 

When Ardyn grabbed him midair and landed safely on the far side of the hangar, it was…well, it felt exactly the same way as when Noctis used to warp him across the Citadel’s courtyard just for kicks. However, the only people that were supposed to be able to warp were either members of the Lucis Caelum family or their Kingsglaive, and the latter only achieved that by channeling the current king’s power. But then, maybe Ardyn was using another one of Verstael’s inventions? The old man had already developed something not too unlike the armiger, which Aranea was currently using for her Stoss Spear. Even if it was hilariously small in comparison to Noct’s, it functioned much in the same way. Who knows what other cheap knockoffs Verstael had developed over the years?

It is with no small amount of trepidation that Prompto arms himself with his SMG and approaches the door. Even if he doesn’t find Ardyn on the other side, he still has magitek to worry about.

Unfortunately, Ardyn is the only thing waiting for him on the other side.

Prompto enters the room to find the man standing before a wall of monitors, arms crossed, watching as Serge and the others make their way through the hangar. He glances over at Prompto and then waves a hand at the screens. “Do you think dear Noctis would be jealous?” he asks, “Look at how many friends you’ve made in his absence! I’m beginning to think you don’t need him half as much as he needs you.”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that,” Prompto grits out. He thought he would be too afraid to say anything once Ardyn tracked him down again, but that stupid comment cuts him to the quick. He can always somehow find his voice when it comes to Noctis.

“It’s merely an observation,” Ardyn replies with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “And, really, I thought you _wanted_ to discuss your companion. He is, after all, the only reason you ventured to this godforsaken place.”

“Something tells me you don’t really care if I get the answers I need here or not,” Prompto replies hotly, thinking back to their last _real_ conversation, that uncomfortable discussion about absolutely nothing of substance over a bottle of wine. In the corner of his eye, he makes note of the door, the one that’s situated on the other side of the large table to Prompto’s left. If Ardyn really can warp, Prompto knows he won’t even make it halfway across the room before he’s intercepted, not unless Ardyn is distracted. Figuring out how he’s supposed to keep Ardyn focused on something else is therefore his first order of business… 

“Wherever gave you that idea?” Ardyn continues, his head tilted gently to one side, his lips curled in amusement, as if he were listening to a small child theorize on why the planet might be flat as opposed to round. “As I said before, you can’t even begin to fathom the severity of your friend’s condition before you first understand the events precipitating his internment in the Crystal.” He sweeps an arm out toward the table, inviting Prompto to take a seat. “Are you ready to listen now?”

 _‘Are you ready to listen now?’_ Ardyn says, as if raping Prompto had merely been his punishment for the simple mistake of not being _attentive_ enough... 

Prompto can’t help but shudder at those words, tightening his grip on his SMG, wishing so desperately that someone would just barge in here and save him already.

His reaction does not go unnoticed by Ardyn, who eyes him up slowly and then says, “Oh, you needn’t worry, dearest. Now that the worst is behind us, I would like to take this opportunity to rebuild our relationship from the ground up. Upon my word as a gentleman, I promise to let you leave this room with your dignity intact.”

Ardyn’s about the farthest thing from a gentleman as you can get on Eos, but Prompto doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s still trying to gauge how likely he is to reach the door before Ardyn gets the jump on him. Noctis usually exhausts himself if he warps too many times in a row, and if Ardyn is using some prototype technology of Verstael’s, there’s a good chance Ardyn’s warping abilities could almost be a one-and-done sort of thing in a given amount of time...

Even though Prompto hasn’t budged a muscle, Ardyn clearly knows what he’s thinking. The other man glances at the door and then returns his attention to the monitors. “Oh, but don’t let me keep you if you have somewhere more important to be...”

Three of the screens are now focused on one of the hangar doors, where Serge has whipped out his little device to hack the keypad. Behind him, it looks as though Tantum is finally having a panic attack of his own, likely trying to process their near-death experience on the catwalk. Vance and Wentworth, not surprisingly, are doing their utmost to talk him down from it.

With Ardyn’s back turned, it’s tempting to make a run for the door, but seeing as his attention has shifted to Prompto’s teammates, that’s an impossible call to make. So, instead, Prompto eases his grip on his SMG and says, “Why were you trying to kill us back there?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Ardyn replies. “I thought that was evident in the way that I saved you.” He throws Prompto a coy little smile over his shoulder. “Such a romantic gesture, don’t you think, saving someone from sudden death?”

“What about the others?”

If Ardyn is upset that Prompto didn’t rise to his bait about ‘romantic gestures’, he doesn’t show it. He simply says, “Whether they live or die is hardly a concern of mine. I merely wanted to steal a moment alone with you, which is hard to achieve when you all sleep together in the same room.” Then he returns his attention to the screens, watching as Serge finally opens the door and ushers the others on through to the next hangar. “Although...if I were to be _completely_ honest with you, I have fond memories of the Commodore’s underlings. They once worked together at the palace, you know. Outstanding soldiers, even with their human flaws. Have they told you why they’re really here yet, or are you the odd man out again? I hope this doesn’t bring back any bad memories from your childhood.”

There’s a lot to process in what Ardyn just said, so Prompto brushes off the least of his concerns by saying, “Aranea already told me it’s a need-to-know basis kind of thing, and I don’t care.” What he _does_ care about is the fact that, just as he’d feared, Ardyn already knows that he’s hiding in a nearby outpost. 

Hello, sleepless nights…

“Very well,” Ardyn says, somewhat dismissively, as he finally abandons the monitors to wander over to the table. Seeing as Prompto has refused to take a seat, neither does Ardyn, though he does whirl around to lean back against the table, one ankle crossed casually over the other. “I suppose you want to talk about Noctis now, don’t you? Where were we? …Ah, _yes_ , Somnus Lucis Caelum, the second born son of his family and usurper of the throne. Did they ever teach you that in school, or were your history lessons carefully curated to paint him in the best picture possible?”

“He’s…the Founder King.” Honestly, Prompto doesn’t know if he has the energy to unpack whatever issues Ardyn has with this guy, but he’s not stupid enough to interfere with the precious ‘flow’ of the conversation like he did last time. “And he’s Noct’s ancestor. That’s the extent of what I know.”

“Then you’re in for a real treat,” Ardyn continues, though there’s a hard edge to those words, as if this isn’t exactly his favorite story either. “Somnus had an older brother, Adagium, who had been gifted by the Astrals with the ability to cure his people of the Starscourge in a manner similar to the Oracles, although he did not possess their ability to commune directly with the gods. He accomplished this by taking the scourge into himself, where it seemed to be…almost _inert_.”

“And he wasn’t daemonified?” Prompto asks, genuinely curious. That might explain how this so-called brother and the monster on Angelgard could be one in the same.

“It changed him—there’s no use in denying that—but his will was stronger than the scourge. He spent his days traveling the countryside, relieving the people of their burden alongside Aera Mirus Fleuret, the very first of the Oracles, though I can see that her name has also been struck from the record. The poor thing... How she fell out of favor with the gods, I will never know, although I suspect it must have something to do with a loose tongue...”

“If both she and Adagium were struck from the record, how do you know so much about them?”

Ardyn holds a finger up for silence, but he shares something of a wiry smile with Prompto at his question, as if he intends to answer it eventually. “At the time, Somnus had taken it upon himself to deal with the scourge on what you might consider a ‘larger scale.’ This he accomplished by rounding up the infected and burning them alive—did _that_ , at least, make its way into the history books? I certainly hope so. There were ample witnesses.”

Prompto shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. That was the wildest accusation he’d ever heard about the royal family. But then, pretty much half of everything that came out of Ardyn’s was sheer lunacy...

Eventually, Prompto shakes his head. “I mean, he had an Oracle. We were always led to believe that he assisted her in healing his people.”

“Somnus was not appointed an Oracle until the first one perished, which was only _after_ he stole the throne. He had been burning people for quite some time prior to that.”

“Not that I’m disagreeing with you or anything,” Prompto says, hoping he doesn’t incite Ardyn’s anger, “but the gods were the ones who chose the first king of Lucis, aren’t they? How did Somnus steal it from them?”

Ardyn pushes himself off the table so suddenly that Prompto flinches. However, Ardyn doesn’t appear to be winding up for an attack. Instead, he takes a few steps forward, eyes cast up at the heavens, as if he wants the Astrals themselves to take note of his disquisition. 

Quietly, almost too softly to hear, Ardyn says, “They gave it to him… _Bahamut_ gave it to him. I don’t know if he allowed Aera to believe Adagium was meant to be the True King merely as a feint or if the Draconian only changed his mind once he saw an opportunity, but Adagium, who had been made ‘ _impure_ ’ by the scourge, was instead chosen as the omphalos of the disease. He became the embodiment of it, an _immortal_ , preserved by the same darkness that had already taken so many lives. In killing him, the ‘Chosen One’ could finally vanquish the scourge once and for all.”

Prompto has _several_ new questions now, but as Ardyn closes his eyes and tilts his head forward again, something inside of Prompto urges him to hold his tongue.

It is then with mounting horror that Prompto watches the color drain from Ardyn’s face. Black ichor dribbles from the corners of his mouth and eyes. He looks like death personified, a person on the verge of turning into a daemon. Of course, Prompto has already seen this transformation once before, back when Noctis was sealed within the Crystal, but it’s only now that everything begins to fall into place. Ardyn’s obsession with Noct’s destiny, his resilience in battle, his inability to _age_ , if what Serge had said about the man was true, the snide remarks about the ‘usurper,’ the warping… _Gods_ , the warping meant—

“ ‘ _Adagium_ ’ is simply a name the royal family gave the first Chosen to mask his true identity,” Ardyn says, turning his oily gaze on Prompto. Then he braces his hat against the top of his head with his hand and bows his head, as if taking a moment to collect himself. When he straightens again, his amber eyes are bright and wild and his skin is flush with human warmth; any trace of his daemon nature has vanished. “Would you care to guess what it _really_ is?”

Prompto swallows hard. He feels sick.

It takes a considerable amount of strength to utter the one word he knows the other man is practically dying to hear. “...Ardyn,” he finally breathes, still stunned by this revelation.

In a heartbeat, Ardyn closes the distance between them, leaving a faint mauve impression in his wake, much in the same way Noctis does whenever he warps. He stops just short of colliding with Prompto, who stiffens in surprise and foolishly drops his SMG, and then he laughs, as if he’d been expecting nothing less than that very response. 

Prompto wants to move—to _run_ —but he can’t. The only part of him that isn’t paralyzed with fear is his heart. He can feel it hammering against his ribcage—can feel his pulse quickening in his ears, heralding the arrival of yet another migraine.

“Ardyn Lucis Caelum,” Ardyn clarifies, saying each word slowly, almost reverently, as he holds his arms outstretched on either side of him. The gesture summons a whirlwind of violet light, yet another demonstration of his inherent powers.

It takes Prompto a moment to understand what he’s looking at when he glances aside at the glowing light. It’s…it’s an armiger, he realizes—a _proper_ armiger, one made up of dozens upon _dozens_ of weapons that twirl lazily around them in three concentric rings. What’s even weirder is that in the outermost ring, he swears he can see his guns—the pistols, the rifles, the bazooka, _everything_ —sorted exactly as they would be in Noct’s personal inventory.

“Go ahead,” Ardyn whispers, ducking his head slightly forward, his breath warm against the side of Prompto’s face.

Prompto feels as though he’s been pulled into something of a dream when the electric outline of his Lion Heart catches his eye. The connection he feels to it now is as solid and seamless as the first time he pulled it from Noct’s armiger, having the royal family’s full permission to access their arsenal and any weapon they chose to store in there. As such, he doesn’t even have to move—he simply _breathes_ and its familiar weight suddenly sinks into his hand, right where it always belonged.

Prompto lifts it slowly at his side, up to the level of his shoulder so that he can see if this is indeed the real thing. It is, of course, which only goes to show that what Ardyn had said was true. In fact, this was a phenomenon Prompto could recall Ignis remarking on not too long ago, one where the successor of a king who had either died or was incapacitated could transfer his predessor’s weapons and those of their Crownsguard into their own armiger, much in the same way Ardyn obviously had following Noct’s internment in the Crystal.

“In your friend’s absence,” Ardyn says, giving voice to Prompto’s thoughts, “the throne goes to the next in line, his only living relative, which is yours truly. That means his country is mine, as are his people. Including the Crownsguard.”

With a trembling hand, Prompto lowers his pistol. There’s a very real possibility that he might faint in the next few seconds.

This can’t be happening...

Ardyn chuckles softly under his breath as he says, “Since you’ve been such a delight today, my dear, I feel it’s only fair to give you what you came here for.”

Suddenly, a hand snakes around the small of Prompto’s back—Ardyn pulls him in closer, up against his chest. Prompto jerks his gun arm back up in surprise, but Ardyn curls his other hand around Prompto’s wrist as he presses his lips against Prompto’s ear and says, “Noctis will remain in the Crystal with Bahamut for ten years before the Draconian deems him ready to return. When he does, he will only be with you for a day before our final battle. If he fails, he dies; if he succeeds, he dies too. Either way, there’s nothing you or your friends can do to save him without a little assistance...”

Prompto tries to push Ardyn away with his free hand, reduced to taking short, shallow breaths as his anxiety overwhelms him again. 

Ardyn simply tightens his hold on Prompto, a silent warning to behave, before he says, “As your king, I’ve decided to restore your weapons to you. You’ll need to keep your wits about you with Highwind’s lot. After all, they once tried to burn a man alive.”

“Let go of me!” Prompto gasps. Between his sudden shortness of breath and the searing pain behind his eyes, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this situation unscathed.

Of course, Ardyn doesn’t listen. Instead, he tucks his face against Prompto’s neck and kisses him where he kissed him once before, the night he curled his hand around Prompto’s self-confidence and snapped it like a twig. Then he softly says, “Be a dear and tell the gods that they can only control so much of fate. It’s my turn at the wheel now.”

Prompto doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and soon it doesn’t matter. His world gets a little fuzzy around the edges as Ardyn lays him out on the ground; Ardyn’s armiger vanishing into thin air is the last thing Prompto sees before the darkness surrounding him becomes absolute.

Before his consciousness slips into the void, Prompto can hear the soft tap of Ardyn’s shoes as he makes his way to the door.

In his hand, his Lion Heart remains.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ardyn's got the whole world in the palm of his hand right now, and he's absolutely loving it. Now, if only everyone could start referring to him as 'Your Majesty,' that would be just perfect...


	8. Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So...Ardyn stole my bike. Either that or the gods are trying to punish me for writing this blasphemy.
> 
>  _*slips on sunglasses and shakes a fist at the heavens*_ Well, you can’t stop me!

~***~

Of all the dreams that Prompto’s experienced so far, this one has the most lingering substance.

In his dream, he is wandering in a field of gold, tassels of wheat brushing against his thighs as a warm wind ruffles his hair. As he reaches the crest of a modest hill, he stops to scan the trees dotting the surrounding landscape. Above him, the sun peeks through a sea of clouds, setting the world aglow.

In the distance, he can see two figures sitting together within the shade of a cork oak tree. One is a woman in white. Her companion is a man clothed in black. As Prompto makes his way down the hill, they crane their heads toward him and each raise a hand in greeting.

What he remembers past that point is very little. There is the weight of a bow in his hand, an arrow loosely nocked. A prism of light dances across the horizon, barely discernible to the naked eye. He feels content.  _ So _ content, as if his worldly troubles can’t touch him here. He is well beyond their reach, far past the point where such trivial things matter to him anymore. 

Then he hears someone softly say,  _ “Eternity,” _ and he wakes.

Gradually, that feeling of contentment sinks under the familiar weight of grief and longing. Now, he instead feels as though something has been stolen from him, carved from the small portion of his heart that used to house his childish dreams.

After a hazy moment, he realizes his chills have returned, although as far as fevers go, this one isn’t particularly bad. Prompto sits up on the floor, sets his Lion Heart down carefully beside him, and shrugs off his knapsack to pull out a potion. The glass shatters in the palm of his hand before the warmth returns to his limbs, but the potion does nothing for his grief. He’s still struggling to make sense of what Ardyn told him, that blasphemous story and haunting prophecy, one that implied there was nothing Prompto could do to alter Noct’s destiny.

Ten years...ten years before his return, and then Noctis will only be with them for a day as the world continues to crumble all around them. That isn’t even long enough to enjoy their reunion, not with this veritable death sentence looming over Noct’s head. Did Noctis even know that this was the fate that awaited him? Did he understand that Bahamut intended to hide him away for a whole  _ decade _ ? Would it really take that long to prepare him for what was to come?

More importantly, was Ardyn even telling the truth? 

From what Prompto’s seen so far, there was absolutely no evidence to support Ardyn’s claims about Noctis. Prompto’s knee jerk reaction is to dismiss them as some backhanded tactic to wear away at his resolve, but there’s a part of him, deep in his bones, that can almost believe Ardyn’s story. ‘ _ Almost _ ’ being the operative word here. Ardyn had ruined so many lives with his charade, Prompto doesn’t feel particularly compelled to believe his opinion on how immutable Noct’s situation seemed to be.

Angry now with this new mystery that Ardyn so graciously dropped in his lap, Prompto makes sure that the safety is on for his Lion Heart before he shoves the pistol into his knapsack. Was Ardyn really a member of the royal family? ...Admittedly, Prompto has an easier time believing that of all things; the evidence that Ardyn had heaped upon him today regarding  _ that _ godawful surprise is at least somewhat convincing. However, he’ll have to talk with Ignis or Cor Leonis before he commits to the idea, see if they can’t tell him a little more about the transfer of weapons between armigers. But at the end of the day, what does it really matter if Ardyn is the current King of Lucis or not? He’s already demonstrated that he doesn’t  _ need _ to verbally order anyone around to get what he wants, least of all Prompto. He’s had the power to do that all along. 

Prompto does his best to ignore the taste of bile as it rises in the back of his throat. He pushes himself to his feet and slings his knapsack over his shoulder as he approaches the wall of monitors. Without knowing how long he was out, he has no idea where to search for his companions or how soon he should expect to see them again. 

He takes up a seat by the control panel in the corner of the room and tries flipping between video feeds for a while, hoping they didn’t run into another one of Ardyn’s traps along the way—and nearly falls out of his chair when the far door to the surveillance room flies open with a well-aimed kick not five minutes later.

Serge bursts into the room with his SMG drawn like some G.I. action hero, Wentworth hot on his heels. The two of them do a quick scan of the room before they both lower their weapons, looking incredibly relieved to see Prompto sitting alone in the corner.

“Hi,” Prompto says.

“Are you alone?” Serge asks, even though the second lookover he gives the room reveals no other signs of life.

Though the answer to his question is fairly evident, Prompto nods.

Seemingly satisfied, Wentworth shoulders her SMG. “So…” she mumbles, “how in the world did you make it to the other side of the catwalk?”

“Oh,” Prompto says, only now realizing how bizarre that must have looked, crossing more than half the span of the hangar in less than a second, and from the behind of the rest of the group no less. “Well..Ardyn intervened. He’s also the reason the catwalk collapsed in the first place, so the sooner we get out of here, the better, I think.”

“ _ Ardyn _ ?” Serge asks, sounding horribly confused. Wentworth looks about as equally puzzled by his explanation.

Prompto closes his eyes briefly and rubs the bridge of his nose. Gods, where to begin...? “He can do things that only someone from Lucis would normally be able to do,” he says. “It’s hard to explain. Can we talk about this later?” He lowers his hand, blinking at his companions as something occurs to him. “Where are Vance and Tantum?”

“Grabbing the prototypes,” Wentworth explains. “We didn’t want to leave you on your own any longer than necessary, although I guess we failed in that...”

“Did Ardyn hurt you?” Serge asks, eyeing Prompto up as if he imagines that whatever damage Ardyn’s dealt to him would somehow be evident on the surface.

“Ardyn’s always been a royal pain,” Prompto mutters, only realizing the irony of those words after they’ve left his mouth. He would be tempted to laugh, but he knows once all the humor of that joke has dried up, he’ll start crying instead.

“Of course,” Serge says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “But if you—”

He never gets the opportunity to finish that thought, because Vance and Tantum spill through the door mid-question, each with several black equipment bags slung over their shoulders. 

“This shit is  _ heavy _ ,” Vance mutters as she none-too-gently drops one at Serge’s feet. Her face is red and she’s heaving like a racehorse from the exertion of having hauled that gear all the way up here. Behind her, Tantum doesn’t look much better. “By the way—” She pauses here to suck in a deep breath of air. “—Captain Kincaid radioed me about a minute ago. We need to boogie on out of here.”

“What’s happened?” Serge asks, glancing at his wristwatch in concern. Prompto takes a peek at his own; they have plenty of time yet before sundown.

“What’s happened?” Vance echoes, cracking a grin. She’s still gasping for air but looks entirely too pleased to be bothered by her exhaustion. “We got the goods, that’s what. The Captain was able to get everything else we needed off that computer.” 

Thinking back on what Ardyn had said about Aranea’s crew, Prompto wants to ask her what it is precisely Wedge might’ve found. Then he recalls the ‘need-to-know’ status of their mission. They would’ve let him in on the secret if they wanted him to know, although why they couldn’t just tell him outright was kind of weird. After all, Prompto was sure he had already seen the worst of what Verstael Besithia’s twisted brain could conjure up the last time he was in Niflheim. 

There was no way he could ever forget the pallid, lifeless forms of his clones suspended in their preservation tanks, ripe for the killing...

Once Vance and Tantum unload a few bags onto each of their other teammates, the group makes its way back to X3-15, shaving off at least half an hour on the return trip with the sheer number of doors Serge already busted open along the way. Thankfully, their journey is uneventful, although Prompto finds it difficult to relax. Without knowing where Arydn ran off to or what sort of trouble he was now stirring up, Prompto’s half afraid the self-appointed ‘king’ will make another appearance before they can escape the building.

When they reach X3-15, Prompto glances into the room from the comfort of the corridor. Wedge and the two soldiers who worked with him today are standing beside the dining room table, carefully packing away their equipment, which Prompto wishes he could have a look at some day, being the technophile that he is. Behind them, it looks as though they left the chair jammed in the doorway to Verstael’s room, probably as a precaution in case they needed to return.

Wedge looks up from his work when he hears them in the corridor. He offers them a small, somewhat weary smile. Prompto imagines the Captain must feel strained after having sat in front of a glaring computer screen for the last couple of hours.

“Good news, sir?” Serge asks.

Wedge nods. “I’ve squeezed about everything I can out of this place. We’ll let Lady A know what we found just as soon as we get back.”

Which is pretty much the first thing they do once they complete their journey to the outpost. Wedge and Serge make a beeline for the observatory as everyone else goes about unpacking their equipment for the day—and Prompto is somewhat glad for their absence when he opens his knapsack to grab his camera and see his Lion Heart stashed away in there. He feels stupid for forgetting about it and even more so when Vance, who is holding out her hand expectantly for his bag, blinks at him in confusion and says, “I thought you lost your firearms.”

“I did,” he sighs. He really doesn’t have the energy to talk about his latest ordeal, quickly adding, “Ardyn returned this one. Can I hold onto the chest holster?”

“Uh, sure...” she replies, somewhat absently, still processing his answer. Then she frowns. “Wait—Izunia was there today?”

“He’s the reason the catwalk collapsed.”

“Oh,” she says, although she frowns again a second later, like she actually doesn’t get it. “Okay, well...let the Captain know, yeah?”

“If Serge hasn’t already told him, I will.” He replaces the standard issue pistol in his chest holster with his Lion Heart, then hands both the pistol and the SMG over to her. Once she’s collected their gear from him, he says, “I’m a little tired. I think I’m going to lie down for a while, if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Tantum says from behind him, giving him a small start. “In fact, I want to sneak in a nap myself before the Captain finds something else for me to do. That nightmare with the catwalk has completely drained me.”

Grateful that he isn’t the odd man out here with his mental exhaustion, Prompto follows the man into the barracks, where the lights are still dimmed to accommodate the people from the night shift as they doze. Prompto goes about quietly removing his chest harness and jacket as Tantum kicks off his boots and flops unceremoniously onto Serge’s carefully made bunk, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he tries to find a comfortable position. In that moment, he reminds Prompto a little of Noctis whenever it was time to turn in for the night, being the first person to usually nod off at the end of the day, splaying himself out in the tent like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did. More than once, Prompto had been forced to roll him over before he could carve out a little space for his own sleeping bag or, if Noctis seemed especially heavy on a given night, resign himself to falling asleep lying half on top of Gladio, who was remarkably comfy for a hulking mass of muscle.

For once, thinking back on happier times with Noctis doesn’t leave Prompto feeling as though he needs a good cry. Despite everything that had happened since the day they set out from Insomnia, there were moments on the trip where they were able to relax and enjoy themselves. In fact, Prompto never thought he would like hunting half as much as he did or exploring long forgotten dungeons, even if the latter still gave him the creeps. Any time Noctis found a reason to smile at their shenanigans was just another reminder that he had chosen the members of his Crownsguard exceptionally well, that he had been in the very best of company until the bitter end.

Kneeling down, Prompto tries to unzip his travel bag as quietly as he can to make a little room for his Lion Heart. He expects to find one of his many sweaters tucked in on top of everything else, but as he stuffs his hand inside to shuffle around a few things, he rubs against something softer and far more expensive than his usual clothes. Squinting in the dim light, he curls his hand around the fabric and pulls out the article of clothing, not entirely sure what he’s looking at until he spots the carefully embroidered insignia on the back of the black jacket.

This is his Kingsglaive attire, the uniform he was supposed to wear for Noct’s wedding.

And he sure as hell hadn’t packed it when he left Lestallum.

Prompto feels something warm and noisome turning over in the pit of his stomach as he struggles to fold the jacket up and stuff it back in the bag. Ardyn was here. Of course, Prompto knows Ardyn already figured out where he was hiding, but the fact that the man had invited himself into Prompto’s flat in Lestallum was more than a little unsettling. Had Ardyn slipped in there unseen or did he make a scene? Were Ignis and Gladio alright? Did they know that he had paid them a visit?

Prompto hadn’t received a call or text from either of his companions yet, but his cell signal wasn’t exactly stellar all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. In fact, in case of an emergency, Prompto had no idea how they were supposed to contact one another. He supposes he’ll need to find out if there is someone in Lestallum he can radio to pass a message along to them.

“Are you alright?” Tantum whispers, lying on his side, his eyes half-lidded as he stares at Prompto in the semi-darkness. 

“I just realized,” Prompto says, trying to ignore the way his hands are starting to shake again, “that I need to make a call.”

“I think the Captain is probably going to be monopolizing the radio for quite some time,” Tantum says, slowly sitting up.

“I can wait in the corner.” Prompto snatches his gun and his jacket off the bed, then makes a beeline for the door, hoping Tantum doesn’t get it in his head to follow him.

The observatory is nearly empty when he slips inside. Trisk, an incredibly tall woman with tightly braided golden hair, and Reault, who is complementarily short and bald, are stationed at the desk by the observatory window, keeping an eye on the cameras. The only other occupants in the room are Wedge and Serge, who are huddled together around the radio in the corner. Prompto apparently caught them at the tail end of their conversation because all he hears is Aranea say,  _ “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” _ before Wedge shuts off the system.

Serge looks somewhat troubled when he turns around, so lost in thought that there’s a minor delay between when he first sees Prompto and realizes he suddenly has company. He jerks his head back in surprise. “Vance told us that you were going to lie down for a while,” he says. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Prompto lies, hoping nobody intends to interrogate him on his most recent talk with Ardyn just yet. He doesn’t know what he wants to tell them, partly because he’s still trying to make sense of what Ardyn said to him in the first place. “I was just wondering if there was someone I could radio in Lestallum to pass a message along to my friends.”

“We have a few contacts in the city,” Wedge replies, looking over at Reault. “Is Naville still in Lestallum?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replies. “We were going to radio him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Jot down Mr. Argentum’s message, please, and be sure to share it with Naville when you make the call.” To Prompto, the Captain says, “Grab your bag as soon as you’re done, lad. We’re leaving for the other outpost in fifteen minutes.”

Prompto blinks at him in surprise, “I thought Aranea said it takes a day by snowmobile to make it to the other side of the facility. Is the airship up and running again?”

“Sadly, no, and with the rate we’re losing daylight, it’s no longer possible to make the trip before sundown by land. But thankfully, there’s a haven a few hours away from here. We’ll make camp before nightfall and continue in the morning.”

Words can’t describe how wonderful it is to hear that. Even in the bitter cold, camping sounds like heaven. After all, having been infected by the Starscourge, Ardyn probably couldn’t cross the boundaries of a haven. Or so Prompto assumes, given that Ardyn seemed hellbent against camping the night before they made their way to the Disc of Cauthess. 

Wedge heads off for the hangar and Serge makes his way to the barracks, still looking a little lost in thought. Meanwhile, Reault grabs a pad of paper and a pencil from the desk drawer. “Who’s the message for?” he asks.

“Ignis Scientia,” Prompto replies. “Or Gladiolus Amicitia. It doesn’t matter who. They live at the same address.”

Reault jots this down, along with the address that Prompto then rattles off to him.

As for the message itself, Prompto is at war with himself over what to say. If Ardyn had already maimed or killed his friends, there was nothing Prompto could do to change that. If, on the other hand, Ardyn had passed through their lives unseen, Prompto needs to give them a heads up. The only problem with that is he isn’t sure what to tell them without worrying them about his own wellbeing, least of all when there’s nothing they can do to help him. But,  _ Six _ , does he ever wish he could see at least one of them right now...He’d almost be tempted to tell them exactly what happened, just for a touch of sympathy from Ignis or a few words of encouragement from Gladio. He misses them more than he ever thought he would.

“Tell them that I have news about the Crystal,” he finally says. “I need to confirm the details, but it sounds like it can take up to a decade for Noctis to return. On an unrelated note, I might have evidence that Ardyn has been around Lestallum lately. I...I might  _ also _ have evidence that he has access to the armiger. Be careful. Much love, Prompto.”

Reault grins a little as he writes down the  _ ‘Much love.’ _ “Anything else?” he asks.

Prompto shakes his head. He already feels like he’s said too much. They’ll wonder how he suddenly knows about Ardyn’s most recent movements, at the very least.

Seeing as he has far less than fifteen minutes now to grab his things, Prompto quietly returns to the barracks. He bumps into Tantum along the way, his rucksack slung over his shoulder, looking bleary eyed and displeased with his interrupted nap. Fortunately, Prompto’s been living directly out of his bag these last few days, so the only thing he needs to pack is his toiletry kit. Then he’s off to hangar, ready to join the rest of his group.

In addition to Serge, Wedge, and Tantum, it looks as though Vance and Wentworth have been roped into joining them on their trip. The two ladies are quietly debating over which one of them is the better driver while idly watching their colleagues sort through the gear they lifted from the facility at the opposite end of the hangar. From what Prompto can hear of their conversation, it sounds as though Wentworth has a track record for running into trees.

Not being much of a better driver himself, Prompto says absolutely nothing when Serge steals the driver’s seat again. He simply hops on behind the other man, gently loops his arms around his waist, and prays that they make it to the haven before nightfall.

Fortunately, the trip is simply a scenic one. They keep to the mountain passages higher up in the valley so as to avoid triggering a magitek attack, weaving between ancient coniferous trees and some rather outstanding rock formations along the way. Closer to sundown, it begins to snow, although not heavily. Fat snowflakes drift to the ground in a quiet, carefree mien, clumping together on his eyelashes when they slow to a halt at the haven, a small, elevated campsite set a few feet into a large cave. 

As they unpack their gear from the snowmobiles and begin setting up the tents, Prompto finds his eyes wandering to the glowing runes beneath his feet. He knew that the Oracles were responsible for creating the havens and that they were somehow able to maintain them from afar, but he wondered how long these would last after Lunafreya’s passing. There was a four year gap between Lady Silva’s unfortunate demise and Lunafreya’s ascension, and the havens lasted just fine until then, but if they really had to wait a decade for Noctis to return and take Ardyn to task for this calamity, then very soon nobody would be able to survive outside the city limits.

“Did you ever meet her?” Wentworth asks after they’ve nailed down the pikes for the tents. She pulls off her snowcap and runs a hand over her tightly curled, dark hair. “The Oracle, I mean. Since you were a Crownsguard of the new king, I’m assuming you were going to be a member of the wedding party?”

Prompto shakes his head. “No, but I really wanted to. She sent me a letter once when I was young, to thank me for finding and taking care of one of her dogs.”

He could still remember the day he found Pryna as a puppy wandering the streets of Insomnia, searching for the school both he and Noctis attended. He doesn’t know if Pryna was ever able to deliver the message Lunafreya had intended for Noctis, but he had been so happy to entertain that small creature for however long they had been together, it was hard not to think back on those days and allow himself a small smile.

However, thinking back on Pryna and Lunafreya has him wondering how heavy of a hand fate must have had in cementing his place in Noctis’ orbit. A clone of Verstael Besithia delivered into the city of Niflheim’s enemy, encouraged by the Oracle herself to engage with the crown prince, every aspect of his life—from the school he attended to the weight he would eventually shed—altered to prepare him for this trip with Noctis...If befriending Noctis had been destiny, Prompto couldn’t be upset about that, but he can’t help but wonder how cruel the gods must be to have led each and every one of them into these dark times. Did Lunafreya know she was going to die in Altissia? Did the gods at least let  _ her _ in on the secret of Noct’s ultimate demise, or did they somehow get a kick out of watching everyone, Lunafreya included, squirm at the end of Ardyn’s hook? 

Thinking of the turmoil Lunafreya must have been experiencing leading up to her death puts Prompto in something of a mood. He parks himself in a foldout chair by the fire, staring into the flames as Tantum grabs several aluminum packs of premade food and throws them into a boiling pot. Prompto eats the resulting beef stroganoff in continued silence, then gets up to walk along the perimeter of the haven before anyone decides to strike up a conversation with him.

As the night finally descends, he finds himself staring out into the darkness, wondering if Ardyn is lurking somewhere just beyond the treeline, watching them.

Inevitably, someone comes to check up on him. Vance elbows him gently in the arm before handing him a cup of hot cocoa, tapping her mug against his before she murmurs, “To arrow,” and takes a swig.

“To arrow,” Prompto mumbles in return before he sips his own. Then he asks, somewhat baffled, “Why are we making a toast to ammunition?” 

Vance laughs so hard at his unexpected question that she coughs up a good portion of her drink. Once she’s gotten a hold of herself again, she wipes the excess cocoa off her chin with the back of her hand and says, “You blend in so well with us, I keep forgetting you’re just a contractor. It’s ‘Erro’—as in E-r-r-o. Aurelius Erro was another corporal stationed at the palace a few years ago.” She takes another, smaller sip of her cocoa, then smiles faintly at the surrounding darkness. “Tantum and I were chatting the other day about how much you remind us of him. Even the way you look. It’s a little uncanny, honestly...I think the two of you would’ve gotten along just famously.”

“Why are you making a toast to him?” Prompto asks, right before his terribly slow brain suggests it just might be a nice thing to do for someone who’s dead.

As he feared, his question adds a touch of sadness to the corner of her eyes, but Vance keeps on smiling, as if this pain of hers has lost a little of its bite over the years. “He died at a terribly young age,” she replies. “About as young as you are now, if I had to guess, and right before he was going to get married, too. He loved hot beverages, even in the dead heat of summer, so we have this habit of toasting to him whenever we have a cup of cocoa or coffee.”

“Oh,” Prompto says faintly, feeling a little as though the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. This Erro fellow sounds a little like Noctis, stolen away in the prime of his life, right before he was supposed to marry the woman of his dreams… “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t apologize!” She laughs again, giving him a gentle pat on the back. “I don’t know what your customs are like back in Lucis, but we speak freely of the dead in Niflheim. They can still hear us, you know? We just like to remind Erro that we love him and that we miss him.”

“That’s...that sounds lovely,” Prompto replies, feeling a familiar tightness in his throat. He wonders if Noctis could still hear him from whatever great beyond he had been dragged off to. 

Did Noctis know how much Prompto and the others missed him?

“Erro joined the military because there were rumors that we would be shifting our research to exploring the stars once the war was over.” Vance tilts her head back to stare at the sliver of the night sky visible just under the lip of the cave. “I never really thought we would achieve space exploration in my day and age, and I guess that dream won’t become a reality any time soon at the rate things are going. But maybe someday, yeah?”

“I hope so.”

Vance gives him a quick wink before wandering back to the campfire, leaving him alone with the stars and his thoughts.

He doesn’t stay there for long, eager to sleep while he’s still under the protection of the haven. As he passes the campfire, he spares at glance at Wedge, who had also been incredibly quiet this evening. The man is sitting with a notepad and pencil on his lap, staring into the fire, frowning in either concentration or concern. He doesn’t appear to hear the small ‘good night’ Prompto offers him, too absorbed with the flickering flames and his thoughts.

They had set up two tents before breaking for dinner; Prompto toes off his boots and climbs into the one on the left, which is blissfully warm. There’s a small heater still running in the corner, right beside the foot of Serge’s sleeping bag. The man in question had climbed into bed a while ago and was now lying on his back, staring rather sternly at the ceiling. His expression softens, though, when he spots Prompto.

Dropping the tent flap plunges them into a near-darkness, the only source of light now being the faint red glow of the space heater. Thankfully, Prompto only needs to crawl forward a few feet to reach his own sleeping bag, which is situated in the middle of the tent. He shuffles out of his harness and jacket before slipping under the covers, grateful for the warm air pad beneath him.

Just as he’s about to close his eyes, Serge asks, “Are you alright?”

For such a simple question, it sure does pack a punch. Prompto doesn’t know if he’s approaching ‘alright’ so much as simply going through the motions at this point. However, he didn’t black out and have another flashback to Arydn’s assault today, so at least he has that going for him. 

He’s  _ far  _ from ready to talk about that, and probably won’t be for a long time to come, so he deflects by saying, “I’ve noticed that you and Captain Kincaid are worried about something.” 

“...Kind of,” Serge replies, no doubt caught off guard by the reverse interrogation. “We almost have everything we came here for, but Izunia’s appearance has complicated matters. We don’t know if he’s here to mess with our plans or yours.”

“He doesn’t seem too concerned with whatever it is you’re doing,” Prompto replies. However, if Ardyn were smart, which he kind of is, he wouldn’t tell Prompto anything about his plans concerning Aranea’s crew in the first place. “I mean, he didn’t grill me on what you guys are up to or imply that he wanted you to take a hike. He did, however, mention that he has ‘fond memories’ of you right after he tried to kill you, so who knows what he’s thinking.”

In the darkness, Serge’s responding silence has a peculiar weight to it. Of course, the man might simply be taking this time to worry about Ardyn’s plans for his team, but Prompto wonders if his companion isn’t thinking about why Ardyn might be ‘fond’ of them. 

Taking this opportunity to strike while the iron is hot, Prompto says, “Is it alright if I ask you a personal question?”

There’s another stretch of silence, albeit shorter than the last. “Yes,” Serge finally says, “but only if I get to ask you something in return.”

“...Fair enough,” Prompto relents, but only because he knows it would scream suspicious if he said no.

He can’t believe he walked into that trap.

“What’s your question?”

Prompto swallows. He wonders if he’s stretching here or if there was something of substance to what Ardyn said about Aranea’s team. “How did you get that burn mark on your face?” he finally asks.

More silence, interrupted only by the sound of Serge shifting in his sleeping bag. When he speaks next, he sounds a little louder, like he just rolled over to face Prompto. “I...got a mite drunk one night,” he begins tentatively. “I don’t usually drink—and I certainly shouldn’t have had anything to drink that night, but I did, and I was angry, and it put me in the right frame of mind to do something  _ incredibly _ stupid. Stupid but necessary...It’s difficult to explain.”

It looks like Serge just might win the award for vaguest answer of the year. Prompto tries not to let his irritation show as he presses a little further. “Were you the only person who got hurt?”

“No.” There’s a subtle change to Serge’s voice, a hint of grim resolve, like he’s remembering just how ‘necessary’ that stupid thing he did really was. “I wasn’t.”

Prompto waits for him to elaborate. Then he waits some more, but it seems as though Serge can’t find it in himself to go on.

Hoping Serge doesn’t push the  _ ‘Are you alright’ _ line of inquiry again, Prompto hesitantly asks, “What’s your question?”

Serge sighs. “...Nothing, I guess. I mean, it’s hardly fair to ask you anything when I can’t be bothered to give you a straight answer myself.”

A little bit of relief washes over Prompto. He doesn’t enjoy having to lie, least of all about how he feels. After all, he’s already spent too many years boxing up his fears and insecurities, faking one smile right after the other to make himself as appealing as possible in exchange for the smallest scraps of affection, even from his own parents.

Rolling onto his side, his back to Serge, Prompto says, “Good night.”

When Serge says nothing in return, Prompto assumes the man’s mind is already a million miles away again, agonizing over whatever it is that has both him and Wedge in such a mood. However, after a few minutes, at which point Prompto is just about to doze off, Serge quietly says, “I’m sorry about Ardyn.”

Prompto doesn’t know why Serge would feel compelled to say that or where he’s going with that comment, but there’s suddenly a roiling warmth in his stomach, like maybe...like maybe Serge knows there’s something sinister going on behind the scenes.

“I know we haven’t been acquainted for very long,” Serge continues, “but I can tell that you’ve changed since you ran into the Chancellor. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he stole your friend from you, or maybe it’s because of this flu that’s been bogging you down, but I can tell when all the fight’s gone out of a person...What’s been going on between the two of you?”

That uncomfortable warmth spreads up into Prompto’s throat. A cold sweat breaks out on the nape of his neck. 

This little tent of theirs suddenly feels a bit too small for comfort.

How is he supposed to describe the pain and humiliation of what Ardyn had done to him? He’s afraid that he’ll just start crying as soon as he opens his mouth, a proper embarrassment of the royal emblem that he wears. Nobody should have to deal with him like that, least of all Aranea and her team. He came here to help them, didn’t he? They don’t need to be burdened with this...

He wishes everyone would just chalk his sudden nerves up to his flu and leave him to his peace already. He’ll only be with them for a few more days. Then he’ll be out of their lives forever, no longer their concern. 

“Anyway…” Serge shifts again, “I just wanted to let you know that you can talk to me. This war—this  _ world _ can be an ugly place. I’ve seen people suffer in silence before, and I foolishly did nothing to help them. I don’t want to repeat history.” 

Though Prompto appreciates the sentiment, there’s nothing Serge can do for him.

There’s really nothing anyone can do when it comes to Ardyn.

As Prompto lies there, struggling over what he’s supposed to say, Serge softly asks, “Are you awake?”

Maybe he’s just giving Prompto an out here, but if so, Prompto will gladly take it. He doesn’t move so much as a muscle as he leaves Serge’s question hanging in the air, pretending that he’s already dead to the world. Eventually, the other man must assume he really is asleep, because Serge turns over one last time before his breathing pattern evens out into a slow, deep rhythm. Only then does Prompto finally feel comfortable enough to close his own eyes and drift away, the pull of sleep heavy behind his eyes.

And thus begins his first nightmare since Ardyn stole his innocence. 

~***~

By the time Prompto was thirteen, he had shed all of his excess weight and then some. 

He looked like a twig for the next two years, especially when he hit a second growth spurt, one that added a couple of inches to his height. He didn’t really feel too comfortable in his new skin until he was fifteen, and even then his confidence was shaky on the best of days. People still stared at him even though he wasn’t fat anymore, which was both confusing and more than a little disconcerting. At least when he was fat, he knew why he had caught their attention. Tall and skinny now, he could only assume that he had gone comically overboard somehow, although how he was supposed to correct his newfound problem without packing on the pounds again was beyond him.

It wasn’t until his father mentioned that he looked ‘good’ one day in passing that Prompto realized some of his gawkers might actually find him...well, ‘attractive.’

Never one to let his confidence get ahead of him, he banished that thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. However, in the dreamscape, his brain had decided, on a whim, to suddenly revisit that idea.

In his dream, he is walking through the crowded palace corridors in search of Noctis. Prompto barely knew most of the staff at the Citadel, but it still surprises him that he doesn’t recognize a single face in the crowd. They must recognize him, though, because more than one of them stares at him out of the corner of their eyes, heads subtly turned in his direction, following his every movement as he tries to focus on his search. The experience is beyond nerve wracking, especially when he catches a few people openly watching him, mouths twisted into something of a leer. It only gets worse when someone reaches out to touch him, just a brush of a fingertip against his naked shoulder before everyone suddenly starts to close in on him, moving at once like some kind of unholy legion.

Heart pounding, Prompto breaks out into a sprint. Someone reaches out to touch his hair, but he ducks under their hand. Someone else wraps their fingers around his elbow, but he tugs his arm free so violently that he almost trips over his own feet.

The world passes in something of a blur as his eyes fill up with tears. He runs in a blind panic until he reaches the end of the corridor and turns a corner. Suddenly, he’s alone again, no one before or behind him, just a queasy sort of darkness and a soft, bluish glow coming from the end of the hall beyond a solitary door that stands ajar. Prompto takes a moment to wipe the tears from his eyes, and then he continues onward, wondering if he’s finally found Noctis’ room.

As he approaches the door, he thinks he can hear something. It’s a soft sound, barely discernible. It sounds like someone breathing. Heavily.

An alarm goes off inside his head, but Prompto’s body suddenly has a mind of its own. Despite his reluctance, his feet carry him to the end of the hall; his hand reaches out to pull the door further open, enough so that he can peer into the room. From inside, there’s a subtle hitch in that mysterious breath, followed by a  _ ‘please’ _ and a  _ ‘stop.’ _ Only then does Prompto freeze.

It’s like someone just dumped cold water over his head. His balls retract so far back into his body, it leaves him feeling physically ill. There’s a bed across the room from the door, upon which lies Ardyn, kneeling between the legs of someone that looks an awful lot like Prompto. They are moving together in a sickening rhythm, one that only the former seems to be enjoying. Currently, Ardyn is wrestling with Prompto’s other self to keep him pinned on the mattress, though the effort appears to excite him further.

Their heads are at the foot of the bed, so Ardyn needs only look up to see Prompto standing there. He smiles.  _ “Here to take over for him, are you?” _ he asks, somewhat breathless from exertion.  _ “Don’t be a stranger, dearest. Come in.” _

Much to his horror, Prompto’s body moves of its own accord again, delivering him into damnation as he pulls the door open the rest of the way and steps into the room.

Then a hand slips into his own, giving his arm a gentle tug, one that prompts him to glance over his shoulder at the newest element of his nightmare.

But the nightmare ends there. 

He is now standing in a field of gold again, a warm wind blowing through his hair. In the corner of his eye, he can see shifting colors, although they move any time he turns his head to look directly at them. He catches only a glimpse of something soft and pearlescent, like the surface of a bubble, a thin prismatic film that is difficult to detect with the human eye.

The logic of his dream begins to fall apart at this point. He remembers feeling calm and collected again. He also remembers asking,  _ “What is this place?” _

To which the softest voice replies,  _ “Eternity.” _

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know this was kind of a slow, set-up-ish chapter, but there will be more action in the next chapter, I promise. :)


	9. The King of Lucis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We're going to start off with another lovely flashback, and then things are going to get real for Prompto again...

~***~

In the bowels of Zegnautus Keep, awaiting the true usurper’s arrival, Ardyn entertained himself by watching the Argentum boy on the surveillance feed.

The young man wasn’t doing anything particularly interesting. He was still unconscious, hanging from a Y-frame in a prison cell, more than a little battered from his rough handling by the MTs. They had incapacitated him just outside the city limits, throttling more than just his snowmobile in the struggle before dragging his limp body to the fortress. Ardyn had already healed the worst of his injuries, most notably his broken ribs, but only so he didn’t suffocate as he hung there. All his other little scrapes and bruises were his to keep, a few souvenirs from his daring journey into enemy territory.

Leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on the control panel, Ardyn hummed softly to himself to fill the silence. It wasn’t until after his sixth repetition of the chocobo ditty that he noticed a peculiar glimmer in the corner of his eye, the faintest wisp of colors blurred together.

Ardyn tilted his head to one side, still humming, to get a better look at his visitor. Unfortunately, his uninvited guest had a talent for avoiding detection, and all that Ardyn could see was a thin film of color that faded just as soon as he latched eyes on it. 

He smiled and returned his attention to the wall of monitors, patting the empty seat beside him. “Care to join me?”

His question was met with silence at first. Then, eventually, there came the softest sound, like the whisper of the wind through the leaves of a cork oak tree: _“No...I came only to discuss your most immediate plans.”_

“Are you in a rush?” Ardyn asked, “because I can assure you, the train hasn’t reached the final station yet. It will be quite some time before your ‘Chosen One’ arrives.” 

_“And will you bar him from the Crystal when he comes?”_

Ardyn flattened a hand over his heart, feigning an injury. “O ye of little faith, how you _wound_ me! After all the years that I spent at the mercy of the gods, how could I _possibly_ do anything other than what our dear Bahamut intended of me?”

Truly, so much of what he could or _couldn’t_ do was still dictated by Bahamut, but the old god’s sway over the fabric of time and space was faltering. The gods were powerful but not _all_ -powerful. No doubt, Bahamut and the others were beginning to realize that the Starscourge, the very same disease they failed to contain themselves, had only succeeded in making Ardyn stronger over the years.

Metelyk, Bahamut’s right hand messenger, did not have an immediate answer for him. Of course, It had next to no idea how to deal with mortal-born entities, being that It was more of a liaison between deities. It probably hadn’t the slightest idea how to handle someone whose immediate response upon sensing Its presence wasn’t to cower before It in supplication.

“Oh, if you _really_ must know,” Ardyn sighed, tired of waiting for an answer, “I’m quite looking forward to letting Bahamut take the brat off my hands. The sooner the Crystal claims him, the sooner I can kill him. I think it goes without saying that we both want his internment to go off without a hitch.”

 _‘But you already knew that,’_ he thought to himself. 

He already knew that Metelyk’s question was a feint, a little something to focus Ardyn’s anger and attention elsewhere before It tried to negotiate for whatever Bahamut _really_ sent It here to collect. The feint resurrected the suspicions that Ardyn had been harboring for Noctis’ entourage ever since The Powers That Be took Scientia’s vision in Altissia in lieu of his life. This meant that those foolish boys were important in some way. If Ardyn had to guess, it was most likely in fortifying the True King’s resolve once he returned, given that he was such a sensitive soul. After all, offing his bride-to-be had obviously put quite a damper on things for him. Noctis had to have _something_ to fight for when the time came, did he not?

“In fact,” Ardyn continued, deciding to put his theory to the test, “there’s so much that I look forward to doing in his absence. Take my guest here as an example—” He waved a hand at the monitors, gesturing to those that were currently trained on the Argentum boy. “This is ‘the one that got away,’ so to speak. My late lover was quite upset when he was spirited away to Lucis twenty-odd years ago. I thought I would daemonify him in his memory, perhaps turn him into a magitek infantryman, just like his brothers...”

That wasn’t exactly true. The boy reminded Ardyn so much of Verstael that he wouldn’t dispute the stirring in his loins whenever he looked upon him. Dear Prompto was small and weak and malleable, the sort of person that was always good for a little victory squeeze once everything was said and done. 

_“I can hardly see why you would bother,”_ Metelyk replied, finally deigning to speak.

“Oh?”

_“You will have all of Eos at your mercy for the better part of a decade, yet you would waste your time on a mere boy? How is he worthy of your attention?”_

“I don’t know. How did he become worthy of yours?” Ardyn glanced over his shoulder again, searching for the barest glimmer of light. He caught sight of something by the door and focused his attention there. “You can speak freely, my good sir. I can tell that you have a soft spot for this one. You don’t want him to die, do you?”

Metelyk’s silence was damning.

It wasn’t fooling anyone, and It knew that.

Ardyn shuffled back around in his chair, giving the nails of his left hand a quick glance. He would need to cut them soon. “No? ...Well, you have my assurance that your champion will reach the Crystal in good time, although I don’t believe your master really deserves any favors from me. If that’s all you really came here for, then—”

 _“His companions,”_ Metelyk interjected, finally showing Its hand. Ardyn tried not to smile. _“...We ask that you spare them for the return of the True King, neither killing them nor daemonifying them in the ten years preceding their reunion.”_

“This sounds like the makings of a deal, though I haven’t heard what I’m supposed to get out of it yet.”

 _“What do you desire?”_ was Metelyk’s next, more cautious question. However, it quickly added a caveat: _“We will not permit you to annihilate the human race.”_

“Now _why_ would I want to do a silly little thing like that?” He had no intention of wiping out humanity, although the fact that the gods thought he was capable of such lofty aspirations genuinely amused him. Clearly, they had no idea what his true objectives were. “Although, I’m surprised you would condemn such an act. I thought mass killings were a surefire way to the heart of the gods. Isn’t that how Somnus earned their favor?”

_“We will not allow our efforts to be for naught.”_

“Then you will agree _not_ to interrupt my imminent reign,” he replied smoothly. “I merely wish to become the king I was always destined to be, to sit upon the throne, to rule my people without interference from the gods, to safeguard them from their enemies—etcetera, etcetera…” With a crook of the wrist, he waved vaguely into the air. “You get the idea, I’m sure.”

_“And in exchange?”_

“I vow to neither kill _nor_ daemonify Prompto Argentum, Ignis Scientia, or Gladiolus Amicitia. There—I’ve even said their names in full for you. No ambiguity whatsoever. I’m also willing to shake on it, if it would make you feel better...”

He knew he had Metelyk right where he wanted It when a soft glow illuminated the room, growing steadily brighter until the steel grey walls turned a blazing white and his eyes began to burn. If he was still a mortal man, he would have been blinded in an instant, but instead the darkness of the scourge crept into his eyes, veiling them as he kicked his legs off the control panel and rose to his feet. When he turned, he beheld a creature in human form half-concealed by shards of light, indistinctly man or woman, though certainly delicate in form. This sexless, sacred entity extended a pale arm toward him, offering Its hand to finalize their agreement once and for all.

The gods and their ilk viewed any act of deal-making unbreakable. When Ardyn took the proffered hand, he could feel something not too unlike a thread pulling taut where his heart should be. This tremendous point of pressure extended down the length of his arm and branched out through his fingertips where they were wrapped around Metelyk’s too-warm hand. It was electric, this feeling, knowing he was now intimately connected to such an ethereal being. 

It made what followed next feel akin to a violation, something that delighted him beyond words, because along that same connection crept the darkness, coiling down his arm and into the palm of Metelyk’s hand. Metelyk jerked back in surprise, but Ardyn held fast. He wasn’t about to infect It, but Ardyn imagined that the icy sensation was an unwelcome one all the same, especially for something so _pure_.

“It’s settled then,” Ardyn breathed, tugging the entity a little closer, searching through the shifting prisms of Its shield for Its eyes, two specks of gold, as bright and brilliant as every other inch of this celestial creature. “But it surprises me that you think I would ruin _my_ Crownsguard. On the contrary, my dear. When your champion returns, he will see them standing at my side and he will falter. Then both he _and_ the gods will know my wrath.”

There was a soft sound, something not too unlike a gasp of pain. With no small amount of strain in Its voice, Metelyk said, _“Their destiny says otherwise. They will rally around their king when the time comes. Their love for him will prevail over your hatred.”_

“The gods speak of destiny as if it were their plaything,” he scuffed, finally relinquishing his hold. Metelyk extinguished Its light just as soon as It was released, a faint film of color passing between them briefly before Its visage faded altogether. “But I’ve already cast off my chains. I find it hard to believe that my fate alone will remain unchanged in the years to come.” 

There was no way of knowing if Metelyk had vanished entirely yet or was merely hiding, but Ardyn still felt compelled to add, “If our darling Bahamut was so certain of his success, he wouldn’t have sent you here, now would he?”

Ardyn scanned the room for any lingering signs of his guest, but there was nothing to be found. When no answer was forthcoming, he took up his seat again in front of the monitors and, interrupting their natural rotation, flipped back to the cameras trained on Argentum, the first of the fortunate souls on his list for ‘liberation’. He already knew how he was going to celebrate Noctis’ internment with this one. Somewhere dark and secluded—and then, after Ardyn had shared all the usual animal delights with him, he would build the boy up into the proverbial demon Ardyn always knew he could be, the one he’d often seen reflected in Verstael’s cold eyes. Noctis would hardly recognize him when he returned.

For now, Ardyn was content to sit and wait and dream, knowing that soon enough his fantasies would become a reality.

~***~

Prompto wakes to the sound of movement

When he opens his eyes, he sees Wedge climbing out of his sleeping bag and the thin blue fabric of their tent alight with the early morning sun. Someone had turned the space heater off in the night, but Prompto is still cocooned in warmth beneath his covers. In fact, he’s almost tempted to close his eyes and lie there for another hour when Wedge runs a hand through his tangled hair, notices that Prompto is awake, and says, “No fever this time, eh?”

Shifting in his sleeping bag, Prompto realizes he only feels a little bit weak and achy this time around, no chills whatsoever. Yawning, he says, “I think I’m good.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Willing himself to move before he nods off again, Prompto sits up and looks over at Serge, but the man in question and his sleeping bag are gone. After Prompto slips on his gear and packs up his things, he ducks out of the tent to find the other man stirring a large bowl of oatmeal over the campfire. The other man looks happier today as he dishes out breakfast for the group, but Prompto doesn’t know if he’s genuinely feeling better or if he’s only pretending after Prompto pointed out his grim attitude the night before.

Once everyone has had a chance to eat, they pack up the tents and roll the snowmobiles down the slope of the haven. In the newly fallen snow, Prompto spots several bussemand and goblin tracks winding steadily around the campsite, as if the daemons had been desperately searching for a way beyond its boundaries. It makes him wonder what they should expect in the way of daemon attacks going forward if—or _when—_ the night becomes eternal.

“Spooky, eh?” Wentworth asks, eyeing up the tracks. “Do you think they all came from the facility?”

Prompto shakes his head. He has no doubt that the brunt of them probably did, but daemons could be found just about anywhere across the globe. If the scourge had a way of extending a creature’s life, as Ardyn had suggested with his own ‘infection’, it was possible that some of these daemons had been wandering Eos for as long as the disease had been plaguing their world. 

Hopping onto his snowmobile and pulling his goggles down over his eyes, Serge says, “Considering how short the days are now, we should get going. There’s another haven between here and the next outpost, but we should try to finish this trip before sundown. Supposedly, another airship will be visiting us soon.”

Prompto is beyond relieved to hear this. Knowing that Ardyn was poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted back in Lestallum, Prompto’s number one priority is to regroup with Ignis and Gladio and find somewhere a little more secure to call their Headquarters. 

He settles in behind Serge and holds on tight as they start off along the winding path toward the second outpost, still keeping to a higher elevation in the valley to avoid drawing unwanted attention from the facility. They break only once to enjoy a quick midday meal, watching as a pack of juvenile snow foxes dart after a hare for a short while before their prey evades them. Abandoning the chase, they then crouch beneath the branches of a tilted coniferous tree, beady little eyes trained on their human audience as they eat.

Prompto doesn’t miss the way Tantum tries to inconspicuously drop a few pieces of dried meat in the snow before mounting his snowmobile again. Nor does he miss how Serge quietly scoffs at his colleague in a way that almost sounds a little like approval. 

He finds it hard to believe that _these_ are the sort of people that would try to burn another man alive.

As they commence with the final stretch of their journey, the scenery passing by in something of a monochromatic blur, Prompto thinks back on his recurring dream. He didn’t usually dream of the same scenario twice, unless it was a nightmare. In fact, he didn’t often dream much at all. He spent so many of his waking hours worrying over a million little inconsequential things that he figured his brain needed to call it quits at the end of the day. That, or a healthy diet, regular exercise, and a strict sleep schedule meant fewer interrupted REM cycles. He didn’t really favor one theory more than the other, though.

It isn’t until Wedge loudly announces that they’re nearing the second outpost that Prompto realizes he could have better spent this time scanning their surroundings with a more critical eye rather than pondering over the importance of a dream. If he had, he probably would’ve noticed the peculiar hint of movement in the copse of trees on their left immediately before a plume of fire ignited in front of the snowmobile that Wedge and Tantum were riding, launching them violently into the air.

Serge swerves their vehicle sharply to the left to avoid running over their fallen comrades, bringing them back around in a wide arch as Vance completes a much sharper U-turn. Behind her, Wentworth has already shrugged off her knapsack and yanked the bag open, hopping off the back of their vehicle before it comes to a complete halt as she rummages around inside for a few curatives. Beside her, Tantum and Wedge lie in the bloodied snow, down for the count but still clearly conscious. She has time yet to fully revive them.

Once it’s clear that Wentworth and Vance have the first aid side of the situation under control, Serge veers their vehicle toward the trees, where an MA-X Patria is lumbering out into the open. Just behind it is a small swarm of magitek, swords and axes at the ready, marching with fanatical determination toward their companions. Prompto whips out his Lion Heart from his chest holster when they’re within firing range and pulls off a few shots at the Patria’s cockpit to draw the attention of their assailants, but it clearly prefers a more stationary target. Only a few MTs branch off from the main group to respond to Prompto’s attack as the Patria and its backup make a beeline for the others.

Cursing under his breath, Serge keeps his foot on the pedal until they nearly collide with the front line of MTs. Only then does he swerve to the right, driving so close to the Patria that Prompto has absolutely no idea how it manages to step over them instead of directly on them. Their sudden proximity succeeds in redirecting the attention of several more MTs, many of which take a swing at them as they pass, but the Patria continues onward, dead set on finishing what it started as it fires off another missile.

Prompto glances over his shoulder, watching as the missile whistles through the air and lands precisely where Wedge had been lying in the snow only moments ago. Thankfully, both he and Tantum are now on their feet, running in opposite directions in an attempt to confuse the Patria. Wentworth, meanwhile, has climbed back onto Vance’s vehicle, her SMG at the ready as they speed off to join the fray. 

As glad as Prompto is to see Wedge and Tantum on their feet again, he can tell even from a distance that their snowmobile is toast. Without a vehicle, the Patria will be on them in no time at all. 

Frustrated, Prompto twists around in his seat toward the MTs, which is the first order of business. He squeezes off three shots in quick succession, which translate beautifully into three fallen MTs, each with a hole in their head, but he knows he needs to take the other soldiers out of the equation soon before they can take down the Patria. So as Serge continues to antagonize them with his little game of cat and mouse, Prompto shoves his Lion Heart back in its holster and swings his knapsack off, shoving his hand inside the bag to grab a lumen flare. What he ends up pulling out, however, is infinitely better.

Yanking the tab off the flame grenade, Prompto chucks it into the crowd of MTs and hollers at Serge to book it in the other direction.

The resulting explosion knocks each of the MTs off their feet, many of which remain completely stationary the second they hit the ground. Satisfied with the damage, Serge veers back around toward the Patria as Prompto frantically searches inside the bag for another grenade. He gets a little excited when he finds one. As Wentworth goes to town firing at the Patria’s missile launcher, Prompto hurls the second grenade at its feet, then swings the strap of his knapsack back over his shoulder and whips out his pistol again as Serge floors it past the machine. In just a couple of seconds, they’ll be perfectly situated to help Wentworth take out the missile launcher, needing only for the launcher to swing open again for its next shot and expose its solitary vulnerability before they can put it out of commission. 

Unfortunately, Serge skims a little too closely by the Patria. Prompto feels something snag on his knapsack before he’s yanked off the back of the vehicle, landing hard enough on the heavily compacted snow that the sudden impact knocks the wind out of him. The world then goes dark for a moment before slowly resolving itself into an image of the Patria leaning over him, swiveling the machine gun mounted under its cockpit toward his face.

Hitting the ground as hard as he does apparently rattles Prompto’s brain a little _too_ much because this image of the Patria is momentarily distorted, its sharp edges bending in a peculiar way, such as how its reflection might be on the back of a spoon. There’s also a hint of color along its frame, a little like how Prompto would expect the machine to look if he were viewing it through an old pair of 3D glasses. 

As baffling as this distortion is, Prompto doesn’t know how to react when the Patria freezes for three horrifying seconds before straightening again. It then continues its trek after Wedge, despite the way that Tantum and Wentworth are still firing at it nonstop.

Prompto’s heart leaps up into his throat when the Patria, seeming to realize the peril it might put itself in by launching another missile, opens fire on the Captain with its machine gun instead. Wedge does his utmost to dodge the attack while returning fire with his SMG, but one of the bullets catches him on the arm, knocking him off balance. He trips in the snow and falls over onto his side, scrambling to get up again as the Patria reloads.

Though winded, Prompto pushes himself up onto his knees. He needs to do something. 

And he needs to do it _now._

His muddled brain moves more on instinct than conscious thought as he mentally _reaches_ into the space beyond all spaces, to a place that is still somehow intimately familiar to him despite feeling as though it’s been knocked slightly askew. It also seems vaster now, terribly so, like the darkest depths of the ocean spread out beneath their vessel on an eerily calm and quiet night. Prompto feels as though he’s tipping headfirst into those terrifying depths as his bazooka materializes over his shoulder, the weight of it almost too light to be real as he takes aim with practiced ease and opens fire on the Patria.

His shot connects with his target with far more force than he’s used to, as if he had just buffed himself with something a thousand times stronger than a Power EX. The blowback from the explosion knocks Prompto down again, but he’s fine with that. Flat on the ground, he’s able to enjoy the lovely view of the plume of smoke that radiates out from the blast, even if the fact that he was able to take out that beast of machine in a single shot confuses the hell out of him.

It isn’t until he reflexively wills the bazooka back into the armiger that he remembers _whose_ armiger he had just made use of.

Still lying on the ground, Prompto pulls out his Lion Heart and checks how many bullets he has left in the revolver. All 6 chambers are full, which indicates that he’s been blessed with unlimited ammunition again.

Prompto feels hard pressed to consider it an actual blessing, though, considering it was _Ardyn_ who had given him this ‘allowance.’ The other man could disarm him without a moment’s notice, which meant that Prompto had to kick the habit of using his personal firearms again.

Annoyed, he sits upright and, seeing that the Patria is more of a black smudge on the ground than anything else, glances over his shoulder at the other magitek. Thankfully, it looks as though the cavalry has arrived, because four more of Aranea’s crew members are currently picking off the few magitek soldiers that somehow made it back to their feet; Aranea herself is now jogging across the snowfield toward Prompto.

She offers him a small smile and a hand to help him up as she says. “I’m glad to see you can access your weapons again. That means your friend is awake now, right?”

“I didn’t access anything from Noctis,” he replies with a heavy heart, staring down at his Lion Heart, feeling almost like a traitor for utilizing it and the bazooka in the fight. “This all came from Ardyn’s armiger.”

~***~

As it turns out, they were literally a hundred meters from the other base of operations when the Patria attacked. Prompto follows Aranea over a snow ridge and spots her airship parked outside the half-concealed hangar door of the second outpost, this one similarly built into the side of a cliff. Captain Biggs Callux is standing beside the ship, his hands on his hips, with another four of his subordinates standing at the ready on either side of him. The small group dissipates, though, when Aranea waves at them to indicate that everything is under control.

As he and Aranea crest the ridge, a snowmobile flies past them toward the outpost. Serge is at the wheel, and Wedge is sitting behind him, his injured arm cradled close to his body.

Inside the hangar, Prompto watches as an unfamiliar member of Aranea’s team hands Wedge a potion to deal with his injury. It’s then that something occurs to him. “That Patria seemed pretty eager to wipe out Captain Kincaid,” he says. “Do you think it was targeting him specifically?”

“That wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Aranea mutters, as if this is regrettably the least of her worries.

Prompto thinks about what Ardyn said, that kernel of doubt he tried to plant concerning Aranea and her team, and decides to nip his mounting suspicions of her group in the bud by asking her outright: “Does this have something to do with whatever it is you really came here for?”

For a moment, Aranea says nothing, just stares at him in a way that’s uncomfortably indecipherable. Then from behind her, Captain Callux says, “We mean no disrespect, lad, but this is a sensitive—”

Just as Prompto can feel his heart beginning to sink, Aranea holds up a hand for silence. Sighing, she says, “If Cor Leonis didn’t want one of his rookies poking around his business, he should’ve given the kid something more interesting to do in Lestallum. Come on, blondie.” She waves him after her as she leaves the hangar. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

They wind up at a small table at the back of the observatory where Aranea pours them each a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Prompto doesn’t miss the way she ever so quietly says _‘to Erro’_ before taking a sip, so out of respect, he raises his cup a little to recognize the toast. “To your friend,” he says.

Aranea blinks at him in surprise, then gives him a wry smile. “So they told you about Erro, did they? He was such a nice guy.” She glances at the observatory window, beyond which the sky is streaked with pink and peachy clouds as the day draws to an end. “Do you remember, back at the Vesperpool, how I said you reminded me of someone? Besithia was definitely floating around inside my head at the time, but I was also thinking about Erro. I’m pretty sure the two of you would’ve gotten along like a house on fire if he was still alive today.”

“Vance said a similar thing yesterday.”

She hums softly in the sort of way that people often do when they either don’t quite know how to segue the conversation into the next topic or are too uncomfortable to continue with the current one.

Not wanting to pry into anyone’s personal matters, least of all about a dead colleague, Prompto decides to do the heavy lifting here and redirect them toward more important matters, especially since he’s literally dying to know how Cor the Immortal is involved in all of this. Clearing his throat, he asks, “Why did the marshal hire an ex-Nif mercenary group to infiltrate a magitek facility in their home country, other than to ask them to steal a couple of prototypes for daemon hunting?” 

“To explain that, I’m going to have to go over a brief history lesson with you,” she replies, wrapping both of her hands around her coffee cup to warm them up. “You already know that the Crownsguard is a pretty elite group, enough so that they successfully broke into this place back when they liberated you as an infant. However, that wasn’t the only time they infiltrated the facility before Besithia ironed out the kinks in his security system.”

“What else were they able to steal over the years?”

“Just bits of intel, really. They also planted a few moles, although these individuals were either forced to flee when Besithia allowed the Starscourge to overrun the place or succumbed to the disease before they could escape. However, they were able to get their hands on one last important piece of information that frightened Cor enough to track us down for the job.”

To Prompto’s knowledge, ‘Cor’ and ‘frightened’ don’t belong in the same sentence, unless you were talking about the people he terrified with his sheer awesomeness. Knowing that something in the facility spooked the man more than the nightmarish experiments Besithia was carrying out on his infant clones admittedly gives Prompto a few goosebumps.

“I’m almost too scared to ask what this intel was,” Prompto replies. “... _Almost_. With you on the job, I’m sure it’s just another Tuesday.”

He somehow manages to squeeze another smile out of her with that compliment. She shakes her head in amusement. “Trust you to brighten the mood, sunshine....But in all seriousness, I think what unnerved your boss was the vague message one of his mole’s radioed out before he lost all contact with her and the other spies at the facility. Something about a weapon of mass destruction. Nobody was really privy to all the details about the weapon except for Besithia and a few of his engineers, so part of our job here was to figure out what the weapon could be and where Besithia was hiding it.”

“Did you tell Cor about Immortalis?” Prompto asks, thinking back on his wild ride through the valley the last time they were at the facility together. Besithia was just about the only person Prompto knew who would willingly give up their humanity—what little of it he had, anyway—to become a literal worm. A gigantic, laser-mounted, titanium worm, but a worm nonetheless.

“Yep,” Aranea sighs, picking up her cup with one hand and slowly swirling the coffee around inside. She looks dead tired, he realizes, like this mission is wearing away at her more than maybe even she anticipated. “I told him just about everything we encountered here the first time. Unfortunately, Immortalis doesn’t fit the short but peculiar description provided to him. This weapon has a different production code and name for starters—X0787X, otherwise known as ‘Zephyr.’ Cor was also informed that it was being stored underground and that it wasn’t ‘mobile’ the same way magitek are.”

Man, why were the bad guys always so _good_ at coming up with cool code names? ‘Barbarus,’ ‘Immortalis,’ ‘ _Zephyr_ ’—and here Prompto had spent the better part of the summer running around with a guy named after a flower. 

Not that he thought Gladiolus had anything to be ashamed of…

Sipping at his own coffee, Prompto asks, “If the facility is void of non-daemonic life right now, why is it so important to find this weapon? There’s nobody here to play with it—and I thought the imperial military was in complete disarray anyway.”

“It is, which is why our original mission was only to find the weapon and figure out a way to eventually move or dismantle it when it was safe to do so. Then _Ardyn_ showed up…”

The way that Aranea says his name, as if she can hardly believe that the _greatest_ bane of her existence right now is currently waltzing around in an outdated overcoat and fedora, is something Prompto feels deep in his soul. Because how else do you sum up a problem like Ardyn? The weary exhalation of that one word and the subtle twist of disgust at the corner of her mouth do the job quite nicely.

“Given the unholy hell Ardyn’s already helped Aldercapt unleash on Insomnia, Cor has every reason to fear a second large-scale attack,” she continues. “That’s why he hasn’t been trying to regroup everyone in your country in one spot yet. If Ardyn or someone else from Aldercapt’s innermost circle knew about Zephyr, they _could_ target Insomnia again or some other heavily populated region in Lucis, like Lestallum. That means we can’t hightail it out of here until we deal with Zephyr, even if it turns out Ardyn is here for an unrelated reason.”

“He never mentioned anything about this ‘Zephyr’,” Prompto replies, sorry that he didn’t have more to offer. He knows that part of why Ardyn is here now is to torment him, although he doesn’t know to what end. This also doesn’t mean Ardyn can’t be multitasking. “I mean, he _did_ say that you were up to something that you hadn’t told me about yet, but I thought maybe that was just an attempt to shake my trust in you.”

“After watching him in the political arena,” Aranea mutters into her next swig of coffee, “I’d definitely say he favors the divide-and-conquer tactic before swooping in for the kill. But anyway—while I’ve been searching for underground hangars at the facility, Wedge has been looking for the specs on this damn thing and any access codes we might need to get to it, which he just got his hands on yesterday. From what we can tell, we’re guessing this Zephyr is some kind of missile.”

“A _missile_?” Prompto asks, mildly confused. He’d never heard of a missile that could level a whole city before. “Just how big is this baby supposed to be? And how is Ardyn or anyone else planning on hauling something like that all the way to Lucis?”

“As weird as this might sound, the empire started investing in a space exploration program many years ago, something to hopefully keep the military busy once the war was over. However, I have a feeling all the technology that was ever produced for the program wound up being weaponized by Besithia, not that I think Aldercapt would’ve minded. According to what Wedge dug up on this thing, Zephyr can be launched from this facility and target pretty much anywhere in the world. The damage he speculates it could do would be catastrophic. In fact, if Aldercapt hadn’t succeeded in stealing the Crystal from Insomnia, I’m sure he would’ve launched this sucker in retaliation and wiped out everyone in the crown city. ” 

“That’s…”

“Quick, clean, and ugly,” Aranea sighs, “which is what all the best tools of war are. But fortunately, Wedge already has an idea on how to deal with Zephyr, which is why I’m going to take him where I think it’s being held tomorrow.”

“Then I want to come with you—”

“And I won’t stop you,” she gently interjects. Then she takes a moment to straighten a little in her seat, adopting the same pose his teachers in elementary school used to during parent-teacher nights right before they laid out their concerns about his weight. “But I think this is the part of the conversation where you return the favor and tell me what exactly has been going on between you and Ardyn. From what my people tell me, he’s spoken to you privately at least three times already and then seemingly left you in a less than ideal state. Given what I know of him, it looks to me like he’s toying with you before he winds up for the kill.”

Under the table, Prompto can feel his right knee bouncing in agitation. He’s beginning to feel a little lightheaded. “Um...where do I begin?” he asks, which is just as much an honest question as it is an attempt to stall the conversation. The urge to look around the room for an exit is strong, but he doesn’t want her to know just how much he’s panicking right now.

“How about you start with your comment about Ardyn’s ‘armiger’?” Aranea probes, looking at Prompto in such a way that he can’t shake the feeling she’s staring directly into his soul. “Besithia only ever succeeded in building one pocket dimension, and even then he was so phenomenally disappointed with how small and glitchy it was that I was half afraid he was going to destroy it instead of letting me keep it. I can’t see him _ever_ giving his old buddy Ardyn anything less than perfection.”

Prompto shakes his head, still struggling with how to explain all of this to her. “It didn’t come from Besithia,” he says, “It’s...it’s _inherent,_ I think?”

“How the hell does Ardyn have an ‘inherent’ armiger?” she asks, still clearly baffled by this incredible phenomenon. “I thought only someone who was in line for the throne of Lucis had a built-in armiger.”

“Well...there’s your answer then.” Prompto still can’t quite believe it himself, but the display Ardyn put on for him the last time they spoke and the fact that Prompto suddenly had access to his weapons again can really only mean one thing... “Ardyn is a member of the Lucian royal family.”

Aranea’s stunned silence is almost as unnerving as her piercing gaze. He bounces his knee a little harder as he waits for this information to sink in, half afraid she’s going to call him crazy and order him off to permanent bed rest until she can ship him back to Lestallum.

Fortunately, Aranea’s surprise slowly morphs into a grim but steely kind of acceptance, like she’s already making plans on how to best act on this new information. “Does this mean what I think it does?” she finally asks.

It means a number of things, really, but foremost on Prompto’s mind is the hardest truth he’s had to come to terms with since he made this horrifying discovery himself.

Quietly, he says, “Ardyn is the current king of Lucis.” 

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Up next, more Ardyn, because its been over a day already and he's been more than generous in keeping his hands to himself during Prompto's little trip between outposts...


	10. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I should probably stop posting chapters at one in the morning, but alas, I never learn...

~***~

After a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence, during which Aranea mulls over the possible truth of Ardyn’s connection to the Lucian royal family, she says, “The one thing I don’t understand about all of this is why _your_ weapons would suddenly be in _his_ armiger. How do you know he isn’t pulling a fast one on you, only pretending he has his own armiger when you’re really still using Noct’s?”

“He showed it to me,” Prompto replies, somewhat sheepishly, realizing there’s so much he should’ve told Aranea’s crew earlier. She really didn’t deserve to only be learning of this now. “It’s pretty extensive, even without our weapons added into the mix.”

“And how did he get a hold of your weapons?”

“When a king is killed or incapacitated, their successor can automatically transfer pretty much anything of theirs into their armiger.” Prompto tilts his coffee cup back and stares down into the murky darkness, suddenly losing his appetite for anything. He still needs to come up with an exit strategy for this conversation before Aranea delves into a more uncomfortable subject. “Except the Royal Arms, I guess. You need to visit the royal tombs and receive a blessing for each one, and I didn’t see any of them in Ardyn’s armiger.”

“Is the armiger the only reason you think he’s royalty?”

“He can also warp,” he adds, shifting uneasily in his seat. “And...and it just _feels_ like he is. There’s this weird connection between us that I’ve only felt with Noctis before, so I can’t really tell you if it’s evidence of his claim to the throne or not.”

Aranea quirks an eyebrow at him, giving him a quick once-over. “When you say ‘connection,’ you don’t mean he can suddenly slip into your mind and command you to kill us in our sleep, do you?”

Prompto snorts at the question because, seriously, thank the gods that isn’t a royal ability. “No more than Noctis could mind control us into letting him fish all day. It just means that Ardyn can cut my access off to the armiger. He can also give me a kind of ‘boost’ in battle, like his ownership of my weapons somehow amplifies their power. My bazooka, for example, wouldn’t normally take out an MA-X Patria in a single shot.”

“Nifty,” Aranea mutters, sounding somewhat jealous.

“Anyway…” Trailing off, Prompto slips a hand under the table and over his trembling knee as he wills it to calm the hell down already. He’s so nervous right now he could puke. “That’s really all that I can tell you about Ardyn, so—”

“Not so fast, shortcake,” she sighs. “We really need to talk about what he—”

“Ma’am?” one of her subordinates asks as he approaches their table. “You’re needed on the radio.”

A look of utter disbelief crosses Aranea’s face, as if she can hardly believe his timing. “On a scale of one to ten, how important is this? Because I’m kind of in the middle of something here...”

The man stares into the middle distance for a moment, as if doing a quick calculation in the back of his mind.

Prompto hopes to the gods that he says ‘ten.’

“Ten,” the man finally says.

Very quietly, Prompto releases the breath he was holding. Unfortunately, it feels like a part of it is still stuck in his lungs, like there’s a sudden ache in his chest that wasn’t there before.

Still clearly annoyed, Aranea looks Prompto dead in the eye and says, “We’re going to revisit this conversation in a minute,” as she rises from her seat. He nods in response because, well, he’s stuck at the outpost until dawn, and she’ll probably track him down for part two of this interrogation just as soon as she’s off the radio, so it’s not as if he can flat out tell her _‘no’_.

Even so, Prompto’s stomach turns to a ball of nerves when she leaves. In fact, he can feel his vision tunneling again, too. He needs some air. Desperately.

Just as soon as Aranea is occupied with the radio in the corner, Prompto rises from his seat and makes a beeline for the door to the hangar. He bumps into Wentworth along the way and manages to suck in enough air to faintly ask, “Am I allowed outside for a minute?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, frowning in either concern or confusion. “We’ve got some pretty powerful spotlights out there to keep the daemons at bay. But are you alright? You look—”

“I’m fine,” he says. At least, he _thinks_ he says it. Everything is beginning to sound terribly distant, like he’s losing his grip on reality again.

Fortunately, nobody tries to stop him as he heads for the small door next to the main hangar entrance, throwing it open with a little more force than he intended as he stumbles out into the cold. The sun has already set behind the mountains, but there’s still a streak of color along the horizon, the last glimmer of twilight, fading fast. Or maybe it’s just his vision that’s fading because the whole world suddenly goes dark for a moment before he returns to his senses, sitting on the cold hard ground with his back up against the outer wall of the outpost.

His knees are bent up in front of him, and he’s leaning forward against them with his elbows, taking one shallow breath after another until he can hold each one in a little longer. It’s then that he realizes he has company, that there’s a hand pressed gently between his shoulder blades and the disgusting smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, like the really cheap kind his neighbors used to buy.

“You back with me, mate?”

Prompto’s relieved that Serge witnessed his most recent blackout instead of somebody in Arane’s crew that he hasn’t been introduced to yet. Even so, he realizes that the gig is pretty much up now. There’s no way he can convince the other man that he hasn’t been slowly losing his flipping mind. 

“You scared the hell out of me,” Serge continues, sitting with one leg casually crossed over the other as he stares out into the growing darkness. He holds his cigarette briefly against his lips for one last puff before stubbing it out in the snow beside him. “You slammed that door so hard against the wall, I thought Lady A found out I was smoking again. Granted, watching you face plant like that was also pretty terrifying. I swear to the gods, I thought you died.”

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says quietly, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. He’s got so many knots in his stomach, he’s a little surprised he hasn’t vomited all over himself yet.

“Don’t be. Like I said before, I can tell that you’ve been stressed out about something.” He pauses a moment to stare down at his cold cigarette somewhat forlornly, either because he regrets putting it out just now or because he regrets lighting it up in the first place. Sighing, he then glances over at Prompto. “Do you mind if I ask what scared you out into the bloody cold?”

Prompto takes a somewhat deep, shuddering breath. His throat and his chest feel tight and painful. His eyes are burning. “Aranea, she...asked about Ardyn.”

“Oh,” Serge breathes. “Well...you don’t need to talk to anyone about Ardyn, mate.”

Prompto doesn’t know what it is about Serge’s answer—maybe it’s just the way he says it, his voice as soft and stern as Gladio’s whenever he promises to talk to a difficult vendor on Prompto’s behalf, but it makes him feel as if a dam has been broken, triggering a godawful flood of tears that Prompto tries with little success to hide when he buries his face in the fold of his arms.

Kindly, Serge says nothing as Prompto cries. He just sits there with his hand on Prompto’s back, giving him a friendly pat as he wordlessly encourages Prompto to get it all out there in the open finally.

After a while, Prompto begins to get a hold on himself again. Sniffling, he lifts his head and stares out at the surrounding darkness beyond their small field of light. He tries to swallow, but his throat hurts like hell. For the love of Shiva, what is _wrong_ with him…?

“When I was stationed at the palace, I used to work with this new recruit,” Serge says suddenly, as if searching for a way to pull them out of the void. “He was awfully kind, probably one of the few people who could genuinely brighten up that godforsaken place. It often seemed like there was nothing in our dismal little corner of the world that could bring him down.”

Prompto sniffles again and rubs his nose clean with the back of his hand, unable to kick the urge to make himself presentable even though Serge hasn’t said anything about the ungodly amount of tears and snot on his face. 

“But after a while, you could see him losing his grip on his happiness,” Serge continues, sounding just a little angry now, a little cheated. He takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself for something, and Prompto just sits there and listens because Serge looks so incredibly pale and distant, like he’s staring back at some unparalleled horror from his past. “I’m telling you about him because right before he left the military he was murdered, and I swear, if I regret anything in this life it’s that I didn’t talk to him sooner. Maybe then I would’ve known someone had been assaulting him. Maybe then I would’ve known the danger that he was in. Maybe then, well...I…”

It occurs to Prompto that Serge must already suspect the truth of what went down between him and Ardyn. Perhaps what tipped him off was how eerily similar Prompto’s reaction to his own assault was to his friend’s, or perhaps there was enough evidence of what happened in Verstael’s bedroom for Serge to piece together the puzzle. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Just the fact that someone _knows_ what he’s been going through is enough to trigger the waterworks again.

And it’s a really ugly sort of cry this time, definitely worse than his first bout tonight. He doesn’t even know if he’s crying because he’s embarrassed or relieved. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Or maybe it’s all the pent of stress of trying to ignore what happened to him. He hasn’t really had a moment to grieve his lost innocence or pride or to allow himself to be vulnerable like this since that fateful night. He’s just...he’s just so damn _exhausted_...

Fortunately, Prompto’s able to wind himself down again, hiccuping a little until he’s able to take deep, even breaths. He feels a bit lighter on the inside now, he realizes, and when Serge quietly apologizes for upsetting him, Prompto shakes his head because this turned out to be the opening he was waiting for, the opportunity to get this daemon off his chest.

Clearing his throat, Prompto says, “After Ardyn cornered me in Verstael’s dining room, he knocked me out. Then he…” He tries clearing his throat again, eyes still burning. “Then he took me to the bedroom, and when I woke up, he was...he was already inside me, and it—it was _horrible_ …”

He wipes the moisture from his eyes, bracing himself momentarily for another sobbing attack. He’s squeezed out about as much of a confession as he possibly can for now. He hopes Serge understands.

And he does, removing his hand from Prompto’s back so that he can sling his arm over Prompto’s shoulders instead, pulling him into something of a half hug. “I’m so sorry,” Serge whispers, sounding a little strained, like he feels somehow responsible for this. “I’m so, _so_ sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Prompto murmurs. Gods, he can feel a real whopper of a headache coming on. “Nobody can stop Ardyn when he’s got his mind set on something.”

“That doesn’t mean we won’t do everything in our power to keep you safe.”

As great as it feels having someone he’s known less than a week fighting in his corner, Prompto shakes his head. “I don’t want you or anyone else to get hurt because of me. I think once I get back to Lestallum, this is a problem my friends and I will have to deal with on our own.”

“We’re not just going to hand you over to him if he comes after you again,” Serge scoffs. “Lady A’s ordered us to help you no matter the consequences, and she scares me more than the Chancellor ever did.”

“What are you going to tell her?” Prompto asks, suddenly nervous. She’s probably wondering why the hell he ran off like he just did. “Are you the only person who suspected something happened?”

Serge’s wince tells him everything. “I wasn’t the only person to piece it together, if that’s what you’re asking...”

“Was it because of the bedroom?”

After a brief hesitation, Serge nods.

Prompto sighs. He should’ve taken a moment to clean up—or, at the very least, remove what remained of the rope from the headboard. He just hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time, scared out of his wits and still in shock, not knowing how soon exactly Ardyn would return.

“Does Aranea know?” is his next question, although she obviously has her suspicions. In fact, Prompto would be surprised if Wedge hadn’t already told her something over the radio. 

“Not the precise details, I don’t think,” Serge replies. “Do you want me to talk to her for you? You look like you need a lie-down more than another uncomfortable conversation.”

“Could you?” Prompto asks, trying and failing not to sound too eager. If he could run straight to bed after this and skip the latter half of his interrogation with Aranea, that would be literal heaven right now. “I don’t care what you tell her, I just...I don’t want to talk about it anymore, not while we’re stuck out here with Ardyn breathing down our necks. My nerves are fried.”

“Not a problem, mate.”

“Thank you,” Prompto says as he carefully pushes himself up to his feet. He does indeed have another almighty headache, one that has him seeing double for a moment. “And I mean that about everything. You and the others have been incredibly kind to me ever since I came here.”

“It’s not hard to be nice to good people,” Serge replies as he rises, brushing the snow off the back of his pants. “Now, let’s get inside before I freeze my balls off.”

Much as Prompto expected, he ducks back into the outpost to find Aranea looking for him. She spots him halfway across the hangar and immediately makes a beeline for him, but Serge steps forward quickly to intercept her. Prompto watches as she scrunches up her nose in disgust and mouths what looks like _‘Have you been smoking again?’_ before Serge manages to usher her off to the observatory.

Once it looks as though Serge has matters in hand, Prompto collects his bag from where someone set it down in the corner and makes his way toward the barracks. He plans on having as hot of a shower as he possibly can and then collapsing in the first empty bunk he stumbles across, because even if he’s still stuck in the middle of nowhere and doesn’t quite know what Ardyn has in store for him next, he feels light enough after that talk to believe he just might get another decent night’s sleep.

And fortunately, he does.

~***~

The following morning, the outpost is buzzing with activity.

When Prompto slips into the observatory to search for something to eat, he finds at least twenty people already crammed in there, including everyone that accompanied him here from the first outpost. However, before he can ask anyone what’s going on, the man he saw manning the radio yesterday squeezes his way through the crowd to hand Prompto a small slip of paper.

“A gentleman named Ignis Scientia left a message for you with our contact in Lestallum earlier this morning,” he explains. “He asked where you were, but we’re not at liberty to share that information with anyone at the moment. We did, however, inform him that we will be sending you back to Lestallum tomorrow evening, once our backup arrives.”

“Thank you,” Prompto replies, grateful both for the message and the news that he’ll be leaving Niflheim in less than 48 hours, although he has his fingers crossed that nothing prevents him from going.

As soon as the soldier turns away, Prompto unfolds the paper and reads over what appears to be a direct transcript from Ignis:

_‘We’re grateful that you’ve been able to collect information on the Crystal, but we’re worried about you. Please, refrain from engaging Ardyn if you should come across him. What you’ve told us about him is troublesome, but we can devise a way to deal with him together. Take care.’_

Internally, Prompto winces. He knew he was going to worry them with his message, but at least now he knows that both Ignis and Gladio are still alive and well. At least as of this morning.

Folding up the note, Prompto stuffs it into his coat pocket just as Vance appears at his side. She hands him a small plastic bag with a straw taped to its side. He takes it from her with a nod of thanks, pierces one end with the straw, and then sips at what tastes very much like a chocolate milkshake, although he’s sure the contents are more nutritious than that.

“What’s with all the people?” he asks, realizing that everyone appears to be counting out an insane number of curatives.

“Oh, this is usually how big the ground team is here,” she replies. “There are newer MTs at this end of the facility and much larger patrols. For example, that Patria we encountered was pretty much par for the course, although it wandered quite a distance from the facility yesterday.” She eyes him up for a moment, taking in his winter gear. “Are you coming with us today? It’s going to be a wild ride since none of the MTs are likely to confuse you with Verstael.”

“I would like to help however I can,” he says, although internally he adds, _‘Please, don’t leave me here alone.’_

“Then you should brace yourself for what we’ve got planned for today.” Vance nods her head toward a map on the wall to their left. “Lady A says you’re in the ‘know’ about Zephyr now, so do you see that huge field with the red ‘X’ on it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s where the underground hangar is. The roof opens up, but we’ve got no way of doing that from the outside. Lady A found what looks like a short underground passageway between that hangar and Building 15, but apparently security was a little too heavy to get through to it yesterday.”

Thinking back on the many garrisons Prompto crashed with Noctis and the gang, he squints in contemplation and says, “Is there any way to stealth our way in, or is the security there ‘heavy’ as in ‘ _heavy_ ’?”

“ ‘Heavy’ as in ‘do not engage’,” Aranea says as she joins their group. “Which is why we’re taking an alternative route.” She walks up to the map and taps a small blue ‘x’ marked a little to the east of the underground hangar. “I sent a separate team out the other day to see if they could find an emergency exit for the hangar. There’s a small, conspicuous maintenance shed all the way out here. With any luck, we’ll find the entrance to a second underground passageway there as well.”

“That’s our target then?”

“It is indeed.” Aranea looks to Vance. “Could you put together a pack for this kid?” She briefly eyes up Prompto’s empty chest holster. “And grab him a few arms. We’re leaving in fifteen.”

Vance salutes Aranea and wanders off to the main hangar to carry out her orders.

Once she’s gone, Aranea steps in a little closer and, lowering her voice, says, “Serge filled me in on what happened.”

For once, Prompto isn’t filled with trepidation or grief when he’s reminded of Ardyn’s attack. It must be because of the subtle fire in Aranea’s eyes, that hard edge that screams _‘vengeance_ . _’_

“I just want to put it behind me,” Prompto replies. While he’s grateful that Aranea looks like she wants to fight someone on his behalf, he knows Ardyn could probably kill her in a heartbeat. “It happened and...I just want to get out of here before it happens again. I’m not looking to get even with Ardyn.”

“Well, then Serge is probably both the best _and_ worst person you could’ve possibly told,” she says, this time with a small quirk at the corner of her lips, like maybe she approves of his ethics. “He’s an empathetic guy, and he doesn’t lose his temper often, but when he _does_ , his brain tends to fly out the window. Just make sure he knows you’re not interested in hunting down Ardyn to exact your revenge.”

Prompto thinks about the man who was apparently almost burned alive and the marks on the side of Serge’s face and that horrified look in his companion’s eyes when he discussed his late friend. Once upon a time, Prompto thought Gladio had the most explosive temper of anyone he’d ever known, but now he’s worried he might be acquainted with someone who has an even shorter fuse.

He really doesn’t want someone to die here because of him.

“I’ll let him know,” he replies.

“And, blondie?” Aranea continues, “I know it’s not easy, but...don’t be afraid to unburden yourself on us, especially when it comes to something like this. We want to help. In fact, if I didn’t suspect Ardyn already knew about us holing up in the outposts, you’d be hiding out in here for the rest of the trip. On the move with the rest of the team is probably the safest place for you right now.”

He nods because, yeah, he probably should’ve told someone sooner. Half of the stress he’d been experiencing these last few days came purely from trying to contain this secret. Having it out there in the open now has given him a little more breathing room.

Patting him on the arm, Aranea turns away to discuss something with Wedge, who happens to be packing a laptop and a whole bunch of other equipment carefully into a large duffle bag.

Wandering into the hangar, Prompto tracks down Vance. She has a knapsack just about fit to bursting with curatives and a bit of food. She also hands him a standard SMG and pistol, although her gaze lingers on his empty chest holster. “Did you lose your gun again?” she asks.

“It’s out of order,” he mumbles. In truth, he stuffed it in the bottom of his travel bag, not wanting to rely on Ardyn’s armiger today for any of their upcoming battles.

Serge shows up in the next five minutes, along with everyone else that had been waiting in the observatory. As such, their team today is twenty-four strong. Serge and Prompto pair up again, this time on a snowmobile with a machine gun mounted on the back, although before they mount, Prompto says, “Thank you for talking to Aranea for me.”

Serge scratches at the light dusting of stubble on his chin and offers him a warm smile. “It’s no problem, mate. I know how difficult it can be to get something of that magnitude off your chest.”

“I want to forget about what happened,” Prompto continues, taking a moment to consider how he’s going to word what needs to be said next. “That means I want to ignore Ardyn if we encounter him today. When I deal with him— _if_ I have to deal with him again, I want it to be with my team back home.”

“What if he comes after you before you return to Lestallum?” Serge asks, brow furrowed with concern. “He’s really thrown a spotlight on you lately, mate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to pay you another visit before we’re able to get you out of Niflheim.”

“I only plan on fighting him if I can’t run from him.” Prompto gives the other man something of a pointed look. “Since we’ve become something of combat buddies lately, I’m kind of hoping you’ll follow my lead when it comes to him…?”

Scratching his jaw again, Serge looks like he wants to argue with Prompto on the matter. But then he sighs and says, “Yeah. Sure…I promise not to do anything stupid.”

That’s about one of the least enthusiastic responses Prompto has ever heard, but he’ll take what he can get. Patting the other man on the shoulder in gratitude, he glances over at their snowmobile and says, “I get to man the gun, right?”

~***~

He does indeed get to man the gun, though he isn’t given an opportunity to pull the trigger on the way down the mountain to the ‘maintenance shed,’ which turns out to be a squat white structure buried in a rather thick copse of coniferous trees. It isn’t until he hops off the bike that any magitek bother to show up, and few enough of them appear that they’re gunned down by somebody else on Aranea’s team before Prompto has the chance to swing his SMG off his shoulder. Which is kind of disappointing, seeing as mowing down MTs is usually where Prompto finds his happy place lately.

The ‘maintenance shed’ has a rather spectacular looking access panel that practically screams _‘I’m important,’_ so everyone stands on guard as Wedge pulls out his notepad and starts punching in one number after another. Prompto swears to Ramuh that the Captain spends the next five minutes doing just that before there’s a low, mellifluous beep followed by a soft _whooshing_ noise as the door to the shed pops open an inch. 

“How many digits was that code?” Tantum asks no one in particular.

“Too many to count,” Wentworth mutters as they watch Aranea summon her Stoss Spear and slip into the shed.

What happens next is a bit of a clown-car moment in Prompto’s mind, because after ten or so of Aranea’s soldiers follow her into the tiny shed, you would assume they’d run out of room for more people. However, when it’s Prompto’s turn to duck inside, he sees that Aranea was right on the money about there being an underground passageway in there. There’s an open hatch on the floor of the shed that leads to a ladder, down which is a narrow corridor lit up by a series of small pin lights. The corridor itself looks as though it stretches on for eternity to the west, which is the general direction in which the missile should be hiding.

Prompto tries to forget about his acrophobia as they continue their journey underground. However, their trek feels like it takes forever, and Prompto’s anxiety only gets a little worse when they come to a sudden standstill at the other end as Wedge fights with another access panel. It takes every ounce of self-control not to glance at his wristwatch every couple of minutes or think about how hot and stuffy it is standing in a cramped space with over twenty other people. He instead tries to occupy his mind with thoughts of chocobos and the rather bewildering realization that he hasn’t taken a single photograph yet this trip.

Thankfully, Wedge eventually gets the door open. Aranea immediately squeezes past him into the room beyond, ready for a fight, so it comes as an honest surprise to everyone that the place is empty. It’s just a very large room housing five small workstations, each with its own computer, bolted down to the floor and facing a large window that looks out into the hangar proper.

And in that hangar is a missile.

It’s a beast of a thing, one which nobody can really see the top of when they all immediately flood over to the window to have a gander at it. It’s also pristine white and terribly sleek, marked with _‘_ _X0787X:ZEPHYR’_ in large, silvery letters along its side.

Someone whistles in amazement behind Prompto. Off to his left, a few guys exchange gil, as if there had been a running bet on whether their mystery target had really been a missile after all. Prompto doesn’t know what else they could’ve possibly expected. Just looking at this monstrosity, he can’t think of anything that could be worse.

When Prompto turns away from the window, he sees Aranea standing beside Wedge as he goes about unloading his equipment. 

She looks, in a word, grim.

She shifts her attention to Prompto as he wanders over and says, “Do you know what I’m thinking, blondie?”

“That this was too easy?”

She nods slowly, her gaze slipping past him once again toward the window. “This was too easy.”

“Let’s not jynx it,” Wedge grumbles as he hands one of his subordinates his laptop and points the fellow over toward one of the computer consoles.

“How long do you think you need?” Aranea asks him.

“Quite a few hours, ma’am. Possibly the whole day.”

She doesn’t seem particularly surprised by his estimation, just somehow grimmer than before as she barks at her people to keep their guards up and, for goodness sake, to _cut it out_ with bets already.

Having expected this day to be one long shoot-out after another, Prompto has a hard time coping with his boredom as the hours creep by. At least ten people always stand at the ready with their guns in their hands while the others try to rest, so the anticipation of trouble is still definitely there. In fact, when it’s Prompto’s turn to stand guard by the door that leads to the corridor connecting the hangar to Building 15, he thinks he can hear something moving around on the other side. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem at all interested in investigating the control centre, although it does make Prompto wonder what sort of trouble Aranea ran into when she tried to infiltrate the place earlier.

When he isn’t on guard duty, he ends up hovering over a group of soldiers playing another unfamiliar card game before Tantum pulls him aside to quickly explain the rules. On his second break, he joins in, although he fails to win a single round. There are just too many card combinations to keep track of and just as many cards covertly changing hands, although this appears to be a key feature of the game, one which Wentworth seems to have a talent for calling out. 

Inevitably, something breaks up the monotony of the day by way of a large rumbling noise that initially seems to be emanating from the door to the adjacent building. Vance, Serge, and the three of their colleagues who are currently stationed there first glance at the door and then down at their feet, as if the sound is in fact coming from somewhere else entirely.

Being that it’s currently a shift change for guard duty, Prompto is already on his way over to them, his SMG in hand, just as the floor panels beneath his companions let loose a low and menacing groan and then give out completely, taking everyone with them.

Initially, Prompto doesn’t know what to make of what just happened—especially when the adjacent floor panels bend forward, creating a sharp slope that he is suddenly sliding down. As he approaches the hole, he can hear the immense hum of a gravity well below him just before it dissipates, affording him the opportunity to grab a stray piece of twisted metal jutting out from the edge. However, his grip isn’t exactly the best, and instead of halting his fall, he ends up swinging down into the room below at an awkward angle, one that sees him hitting the floor directly on his left shoulder

On his travels with Noctis, he’d been flung around and battered down by a number of large and terrifying beasts, but somehow nothing hurts as badly as kissing dirt after a tremendous fall. In fact, he’s in so much pain once he collides with the floor, he blacks out momentarily, coming to lying flat on his back, suffering from a nauseating sensation not too unlike someone jabbing a red hot poker stick in the tender joint between his arm and torso. He’s sobbing and shaking and gasping for air, only relieved from his suffering once Aranea drops down beside him on her Stoss Spear and crushes a Hi-potion over his chest.

He wonders if it’s possible to develop an addiction to curatives because the one Aranea gives him sure as hell hits the spot. All at once, the pain in his shoulder and the cold clutch of shock in the pit of his stomach melt away under the soothing touch of the potion. He lies there for a moment feeling warm and heavy, like he just woke up from a good nap, watching as Aranea suddenly vanishes again, just as suddenly as she appeared.

Prompto cranes his head to one side and sees that there is a hole in this floor too, one that leads to all the real action going on below. He rolls over onto his stomach to glance over the lip, watching as Aranea tosses Phoenix Downs at everyone else that fell from the control centre, rousing them to help her with the sudden swarm of magitek and MA-X Patrias. She grabs Vance by the arm and hauls her to her feet, commanding the woman to make a break for the door.

Even Prompto can tell that there’s no point in sticking around for this fight, outnumbered as they are, but he still clambers to his knees and hoists his SMG up, firing at one of the Patrias to draw its attention. Almost every MT looks up as well, affording the others a chance to scramble to their feet and dart out of sight, hopefully to a door that leads to a corridor or somewhere a little less hectic than this war zone. 

Prompto can only stretch his distraction for a few seconds before he’s forced to scurry back from the hole in the floor, ducking aside just as a Patria opens fire with its machine gun. He catches a glimpse of someone peeking down through the hole above him before they’re also forced to retreat. Prompto’s betting the only course of action that the people upstairs can take right now is to hightail it out of there before another gravity well opens up beneath them.

Not knowing how he’s supposed to get out of there on his own, Prompto knows his best bet is to regroup with Aranea and the others. Presently, the only route available to him is the door at the far end of the near-empty storage room he fell into. As the Patria continues to fire blindly through the hole, Prompto sprints for the door, pausing momentarily to nudge it quietly open before he steps into the dimly lit passageway beyond. It’s fairly long, but he spends less time jogging down it than the one they took from the maintenance shed, and it ends in a set of double doors that lead to what he assumes is the adjacent building.

Pressing his ear up against the door, Prompto listens for the sounds of a patrol. When he’s met with silence, he pushes the door open and steps into the corridor. Dimly, he can now hear the sound of gunfire beneath him, indicating that at least someone from Aranea’s team is still alive down there.

Frantically, Prompto runs through the conspicuously empty corridors of the building in search of a stairwell. He doesn’t find anything of the sort, but he eventually comes across an open door leading to a surveillance room. There’s a window inside that spans the left wall, overlooking another hangar below. Prompto glances down through it just in time to see Aranea and her people running through a second set of doors, a mass of magitek hot on their heels. However, they are apparently able to barricade it shut, because the MTs can’t seem to push their way through the door no matter how many of them suddenly pile up against it.

Prompto then turns his attention to the wall of monitors on the adjacent wall, hoping to spy his companions on at least one of them. And it looks like he’s in luck, because each of the fifty screens appears to be focused on the tiny room that they’ve cornered themselves in—with the exception of one, which displays another door, this one blocked by a considerable amount of debris. After eyeing the screens long enough, Prompto realizes that this latter door is a second exit to the room that his companions are in, one that Serge and Aranea are currently trying to break down.

“It’s a pity they won’t escape in time.”

Prompto pivots sharply on his heel, raising his SMG to train it on the man by the door. That man, of course, is Ardyn, who feigns surprise at Prompto’s knee-jerk response and raises his hands in mock surrender. Of course, he drops them just as quickly, laughing quietly to himself as he then walks up to the wall of monitors.

Lowering his SMG, Prompto follows his gaze, every muscle in his arms and neck tensing as he wonders what Ardyn has in store for them. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Ardyn reaches into his coat pocket and produces a small golden watch. He pops it open, spares it a glance, and says, “Nightfall is in just a few hours, my dear. They need to clear out of here now if they hope to reach the outpost while there’s daylight to spare. Otherwise, they’re sitting ducks for the daemons.” The watch vanishes back into his pocket. He then waves a hand dismissively at Prompto. “Speaking of which, off you go! I’ve already cleared the way for you. Isn’t that kind?”

“I’m not leaving without them,” Prompto replies, stepping over to the window once again. Presently, there are only foot soldiers trying to batter down the door, but as soon as one of them gets it in their head to use another gravity well or call over a Patria, it’s toast.

“Not even if that’s a direct order?” Ardyn asks, all syrupy sweet and suddenly too close to Prompto’s ear.

Startled, Prompto dances aside a step, having forgotten how quickly the other man could warp. Ardyn stares out the window from his new position beside Prompto, humming contemplatively to himself as he takes in the view. Then he says, “It’s nothing personal. In fact, I rather like the Commodore, but as the old adage goes, the only good Nif is a dead Nif. Any _true_ Lucian would agree.”

“Technically, I’m a Nif, too, aren’t I?” Prompto spits in return. “So why don’t you just kill me already?”

“Oh—but I could have _sworn_ you were a crown citizen.” Ardyn counters, just as smug as usual, lips curled in a bemused smile. “Isn’t that what you fought so hard to convince your friends? After you so dutifully delivered your companion to his destiny, I think it’s only fair to say that you’ve successfully written off your heritage and pledged your allegiance to the crown. Now, I believe, it’s time to lie in the bed that you’ve made for yourself...”

When Ardyn advances on him, it’s slowly and deliberately, enough so that Prompto can maintain a little space between them as he backs away. But to what end, he doesn’t know. Staring into those amber eyes, it’s hard not to feel like a pinned butterfly again, stepping right back into the same disaster he thought he escaped from just a few nights ago.

It comes as something of a surprise then when Ardyn suddenly stops, glancing up and away, as though something had just occurred to him. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he looks down at Prompto again and says, “But what sort of king would I be if I didn’t _serve_ my people, hm? Does the Commodore’s situation truly distress you? Would you rather I let them go?”

 _Of course_ , he damn well wants them to get out of here alive, but Prompto knows Ardyn is only teasing him, winding him up for another disaster, the likes of which Prompto can already guess.

Though it pains him to do so, Prompto bites the bullet and quietly asks, “In exchange for what?”

“A sign of your loyalty, of course.”

“I won’t kill anyone for you,” is his immediate response, because he sure as hell isn’t going to gun someone down on this bastard’s behalf.

Ardyn’s sudden bark of laughter makes Prompto flinch. “Not yet,” he says, “but soon enough, I’m sure you will. For now…” he glances aside at the monitors on the wall. On them, Prompto can see Serge frantically shoving his dagger into one of the door joints, hoping to pry it open the old fashioned way, although he has no idea just how much debris is blocking the door on the other side. 

Ardyn waits until Prompto’s had a moment to take in the nightmare that’s still unfolding downstairs before he says “...I think another evening in your company would suffice. After all, I _did_ promise that we would pick up where we left off.”

It’s alarming how quickly the whole world then gets a little quieter. A little dimmer, too. Prompto wonders if this is what it’s like to completely dissociate, to suddenly feel like he’s watching someone else’s life unravel on an old television screen, all the finer details botched by a thousand tiny lights. He’s been separated from reality by an imaginary sheet of glass, one that means absolutely nothing to Ardyn as he reaches up to brush his knuckles against Prompto’s cheek in the mockery of a lover’s caress.

Ardyn’s hand on his face feels too entirely unreal. Prompto’s mind immediately tries to block it out, taking something of a sidestep as it refocuses his attention on the Patria that just ambled into the hangar. The machine straightens itself out before opening the hatch to its missiles, waiting for the MT foot soldiers to untangle themselves from the dogpile they’ve made in front of the door before it opens fire.

“...Okay,” Prompto says. His voice sounds like it’s a million miles away, so he says it again, just in case Ardyn can’t really hear him either, “Okay.”

“What a smart boy,” Ardyn remarks, his voice a deep rumble that reverberates at the back of Prompto’s mind. 

As the man takes a step back, Prompto realizes there’s something off about the Ardyn’s reflection in the window. Even though he can see Ardyn for who he really is in person, Noctis is the one he sees through the glass, sharing Ardyn’s twisted smile, now holding the unfamiliar broadsword that materializes in Ardyn’s hands. Back in Zegnautus Keep, Noctis explained that Ardyn could somehow assume the appearance of another person, hence his deception on the train to Tenebrae, but seeing Ardyn’s illusionary powers in person is an experience unlike any other. Prompto’s heart aches at first to see Noctis standing there, even if only through a reflection, and then something inside him twists uncomfortably when he takes in the sneer on Noct’s face, a look that has absolutely no place on someone as kind and noble as his friend.

Witnessing Ardyn’s trickery somehow yanks Prompto back into the here and now. He jumps a little when the SMG in his hands is suddenly replaced by his Lion Heart, entirely unprepared to react when Ardyn steps forward again and hooks an arm around his waist.

“Let’s clear the way for them then,” the other man laughs as one of the window panels beside them explodes in a shower of glass an instant before Prompto is pulled violently along Ardyn’s warp route to the floor of the hangar below. 

Prompto’s head spins for a moment when they come to a standstill. It’s then with dawning horror that he watches every magitek head in the room swivel in their direction. Even the Patria, which seemed hell bent on blowing the door to kingdom come a moment earlier, has begun to readjust its position to take aim at them instead.

“Don’t hold back,” Ardyn laughs with unbridled delight, taking a swipe at the nearest MT and cleanly severing its head from its body.

It only takes Prompto a split second to shift his mind into battle mode as he aims at the nearest magitek on his left and opens fire.

If life as he knows it is supposed to end tonight, then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t squeeze a little enjoyment out of his last honest fight.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aydn’s not going to let Prompto die, of course. He just wants to get them both riled up for the sort of fun he’d much rather be having this evening, so brace yourselves for the next chapter...


	11. Desecration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well, if it isn't me, posting another chapter at an ungodly hour of the night. When will I ever learn?

~***~

Fighting alongside Noctis and the others had always been an otherworldly experience.

It was like a dance almost, one in which the four of them seemed to know just where the others were at all times. For the most part, anyway. Prompto had lost count of how often he ducked aside at the right moment to avoid a close shave with someone’s blade or how deftly his companions side-stepped out of his line of sight as he delivered a daemon its final retribution from halfway across the battlefield. Sometimes, they got a little too close for comfort, knocking elbows at an inopportune moment, or stepping on someone else’s toe, or very narrowly amputating a poorly positioned limb or digit, but most of the time it was...it was _magic._ Prompto knew when and where to move or take aim, almost as if Noctis had been directly feeding his battle strategies into Prompto’s brain. 

Fighting alongside Ardyn feels _exactly_ like that...except a little more so.

There has to be at least a hundred soldiers scrambling after Prompto, but he doesn’t feel overwhelmed or afraid. He ducks and rolls away from the Patria’s rain of bullets and dances effortlessly around the MTs’ heavy-handed attempts at felling him with their pole axes. When his gut tells him to stop, he stops on a dime, redirecting his gaze to the nearest threat; when it tells him to go, he goes, _all out_ , guns ablazing, the background bleeding into a dull grey as his enemies light up in his periphery, like someone’s punched their thumb down on his overkill button and have yet to ease off it again. He feels like he’s invincible.

And it’s intoxicating.

Terrifyingly so.

It only occurs to him how bizarre this all is when he turns to see Ardyn moving toward him across the battlefield like smoke; he doesn’t bat an eyelash as he’s whisked behind a second Patria, perfectly positioned to take it down. Ardyn takes his Lion Heart with a flick of the wrist and materializes his broadsword in Prompto’s hands simultaneously, murmuring a soft, “At your leisure,” as they wind up for a blindside attack. The broadsword feels like it weighs next to nothing as Prompto drives it through one of the Patria’s legs while Ardyn takes fire at the other. The machine slumps forward almost comically, crushing several MTs before its oil ignites and takes out twenty more.

Prompto stands on the periphery of the blazing inferno and holds the broadsword out to Ardyn. “Be a dear and take care of that,” the other man says as he waves his free hand toward a group of MTs spilling in through the door.

As Prompto turns, he summons his bazooka. And just like that, where once there stood thirty magitek soldiers, there is now nothing but another strip of fire, flames licking high up into the rafters as Prompto silently takes in the carnage around him. He can feel the heat against his face, but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest as he scans the molten husks of his opponents, wondering which direction the next wave will come from and when this battle of theirs will reach its fever pitch.

With practiced ease, Ardyn takes him by the hand and shows him.

Prompto doesn’t know why he has no qualms about keeping his back turned to the other man as they fight, why he trusts him to defend it as faithfully as one of his friends. Nor does Prompto understand how he managed to fall so seamlessly into rhythm with Ardyn. Dimly, he realizes it’s because he’s shut down the autonomous part of his brain that would normally balk at the magnitude of their opponent’s attack and handed Ardyn the steering wheel, much as he did whenever Noctis led him into battle. Gladio once told him that as the King’s Shield, he’d been figuratively tied to Noctis’ left hand, and that’s exactly how Prompto feels right now, like he’s mentally strapped himself to Ardyn and allowed himself to fall in-sync. Nothing fazes him, not the bullets or the blades or the writhing mass of metal bodies that try to pull him under. This is Ardyn’s wheelhouse, and he’s happily taken Prompto along for the ride.

And Ardyn...Ardyn is something else. Prompto has had the opportunity to sit on the sidelines and watch both his companions and several members of the Kingsglaive spar in Insomnia. Some duke it out with a fire in their eyes, like Gladio, while others are more quiet and composed, like Ignis, but they all fight with a frightening degree of focus and intensity that suggests they treat every battle like their last. But watching Ardyn, it almost looks like this is a game to him, as it does now with the way he presses his hand against an MT’s elbow and redirects the swing of their arm into the nearest soldier, or how he then twirls into a slap kick that looks more like an admonishment than an attack. Whatever move he makes, he does it with an efficiency that would put Cor to shame, slipping from one attack to another with an air of nonchalance. It’s truly uncanny how many magitek soldiers he fells with this wild dance of his, alternating between punching a hole through them with his bare hands and literally cutting them down to size with his blade.

After the dust has settled and Prompto is surrounded by nothing more than sputtering flames and heaps upon heaps of fallen soldiers, he looks at Ardyn and wonders what force in heaven or hell could ever hope to contain a power such as his. 

“Child’s play,” Ardyn remarks as he vanishes his broadsword into his armiger with a casual smile and a small adjustment of the hat on his head, almost as if he were reading Prompto’s mind. “Isn’t it?”

Prompto barely registers his question, because in the corner of his eye he sees a body and a rifle and the telltale motion of someone lining up to take a shot. He thought the battle was well and truly over, but clearly they missed someone.

He’s still moving on automatic as he pivots sharply and raises his Lion Heart, only just taking in his target before he pulls the trigger. 

Serge stumbles back a step, letting loose a cry that finally rouses Prompto from the hypnosis of his overdrive.

It’s then that Prompto is _infinitel_ y grateful that he doesn’t become a complete automaton in the heat of battle, because having intuitively registered Serge as a non-MT, he aimed for the other man’s SMG instead of his heart. He winds up severing a few inches off the end of his rifle’s barrel and knocking it out of Serge’s hands, which completely stuns Serge for a moment until he seems to realize that this was merely Prompto’s knee-jerk reaction to having someone sneak up on him. 

Coming back to his sense, Serge jerks his head toward the nearest exit. “Run, mate,” he says before openly glaring at Ardyn, who had undoubtedly been his target.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto breathes, hardly believing how damn _close_ he just came to putting his friend six feet under. And in the process of defending _Ardyn_ of all people. Six, save him...

“No need to apologize,” Ardyn interjects smoothly, stealing the spotlight as he steps confidently forward. He gives Prompto a pat ‘well done’ on the shoulder as he passes, then stands partially in front of him, basking in Serge’s glare. “You were only doing your duty, dearest.”

Serge draws the pistol from his hip holster just as Aranea hops over the smoldering arm of a fallen Patria to join the fray, Vance and the others close behind her. She still has her Stoss Spear in hand, held loosely at her side. Her gaze flickers briefly from Prompto to Ardyn before she touches Serge’s arm to draw his attention. “Take it easy,” she mutters to him.

For a moment, Serge doesn’t move a muscle. He just stands there, staring at Ardyn with a kind of simmering rage that says _‘to hell with the consequences,’_ as if he honestly believes he could kill Ardyn with that piddly little gun in his hand.

Meanwhile, Ardyn doesn’t move much at all either, which is kind of unnerving. From what Prompto’s seen, Ardyn could skip over there and snap Serge’s neck in the time it would take the other man to blink.

After a chilling moment of silence, Ardyn decides he’s going to goad the man into making the first move by humming softly to himself and saying, “Ah, yes, I _do_ remember you. You’re the guard who—”

Serge jerks his gun arm up finally, but Aranea yanks it back down just as fast, stepping forward to take control of the situation. “Izunia, just let the kid go.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, he’s only here to afford _you_ the opportunity to leave.” Lifting a finger, Ardyn gestures vaguely toward the nearest door, as if Aranea hadn’t already noticed it. “You have twenty minutes to vacate the premises, Commodore. I will call off any attacks until then.”

“I’m _not_ leaving without him,” Aranea snaps, her voice ringing loud above the crackle and pop of the burning wreckage, leaving no room for nonsense or empty threats. Prompto’s always admired that about her, that fiery resolve. “I know you like a good deal, so let’s negotiate.”

“I’ve already negotiated,” Ardyn replies, turning his back on her. He winks at Prompto, but Prompto knows he’s speaking to both of them when he says, “And I’m quite satisfied with how that turned out.”

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says again, staring past Ardyn at his companions. 

He can see the panic that flashes across Serge’s face a second before Prompto’s world is thrown into motion again. 

Ardyn hooks an arm around his waist and warps them up into the surveillance room, depositing Prompto with more grace than Noctis had even been capable of on the floor beside one of the terminals. As soon as they’ve returned to normal speed, Ardyn leans over the terminal and types something in. Then he depresses the button beside the nearest mic and says, “T-minus 20 minutes, Commodore, starting now. Try not to touch anything on your way out.”

Prompto glances over at the window, fighting the urge to steal one last look at his companions. Ardyn never said that he was going to keep Prompto away from them indefinitely, but what reason did he have to let Prompto go? Regardless of the circumstances, Prompto was very much his prisoner now.

“How do I know you aren’t going to have them all killed before they make it out of here?” Prompto asks suddenly, his heart fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. If anyone died, he didn’t know how he was going to manage.

Ardyn throws him a bemused look. “We could observe them from here,” he offers, briefly eyeing the wall monitors, “but I think a bird’s-eye view might be more enjoyable.”

Without waiting for a response, Ardyn turns away from the terminal and saunters toward the door. Prompto has trouble getting his feet to follow after the other man, and then he has to struggle to keep up with Ardyn as he leads Prompto through the facility, his long legs eating up the distance to an elevator down a long corridor Prompto hadn’t thought to check earlier. The Niflheim emblem, the red silhouette of two dragons entangled with a sword, is painted over the elevator doors, which makes Prompto wonder if this is the building Aldercapt resided in during his visits. 

His suspicions are confirmed after a long ride to one of the uppermost floors, during which Prompto stands as far from Ardyn as he possibly can without pressing himself into the nearest wall, keeping his eyes trained on his pale reflection in the glossy metal surface as he tries to ignore the whirlwind of emotions in his head. There’s a horrible shine to his skin, still covered in a thin film of sweat from their recent battle, and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose pop a little more than usual. Coupled with the dead look in his eyes, he honestly doesn’t know what Ardyn finds so appealing about him. He looks and feels like some limp, lifeless thing that the ocean dragged up onto the beach after a storm.

When the elevator shudders to a halt and its doors slide open again, Ardyn waltzes into the opulent antechamber before them as if he owns the place. Knowing the role that Ardyn served in the Niflheim government and his friendly relationship with Verstael, Prompto wouldn’t be surprised if this floor was designed according to his tastes. Either his or Aldercapt’s, because the tall, vaulted ceiling, the marbled floor, and the insanely large oil paintings on the walls depicting the divine history of Eos practically scream royalty, just like Noct’s old rooms in the Citadel before he was allowed to choose his own decor.

Taking off his hat, Ardyn tosses it haphazardly onto a small, round table in the middle of the room, almost knocking over the antique vase standing there. This must be Aldercapt’s quarters then, or wherever Verstael stowed visiting dignitaries, because Ardyn’s blatant disregard for the property of others was...well, _blatant_ , like he took pride in how very little he cared for anybody else or their things.

As if trying to drive that very message home, Ardyn waves his hand toward the settee beside the elevator and says, “Feel free to throw your shoes and coat anywhere.” Then he disappears through a door on the left, turning on the lights in the adjacent room as he goes.

It’s warm enough on this floor that Prompto feels comfortable temperature-wise slipping off his winter gear, even if he doesn’t like the idea of peeling off any of the layers currently separating his skin from Ardyn’s. Which is kind of a stupid insecurity to be having right now, considering that Ardyn will strip him of pretty much everything soon enough to get what he wants.

That thought hits Prompto pretty hard as he’s stuffing his winter cap and gloves into one of the sleeves of his jacket. Here he stands, Prompto Argentum, Crownsguard and close friend of Noctis Lucis Caelum, once more whittled down and repurposed as a tool for Ardyn’s pleasure. It’s difficult not to reflect on the decisions that led him to this place tonight and feel like some dumb kid that got in _way_ over his head. He wishes he was miles away right now, safe in his bed at home in Insomnia as he texted Noctis silly chocobo memes or played King’s Knight until the wee hours of the morning on his cellphone. 

He takes a moment to glance at the elevator, wondering what would happen if he said _‘to hell with it’_ and just ran. Ardyn would catch him in a manner of seconds, no doubt, but maybe if Prompto screamed and cried and thrashed hard enough, Ardyn would be too thoroughly disgusted with his behavior to get a hard on. Then again, he might get off on that sort of thing instead. Pushing people’s buttons and then watching them writhe in agony was kind of his forte.

But as Prompto’s staring at the elevator doors, fantasizing about an escape plan that will never reach fruition, Aranea pops up into his head, then Serge, and finally Vance. Then he remembers that what landed him in this mess is the fact that, unlike Ardyn, he cares too much for other people—which is something he’s damn proud of, actually, his empathy being one of the many things that Noctis openly admitted to admiring about him.

Prompto is under no illusion that tonight will be one of the worst nights of his life, that there will be pain and tears and a kind of mental anguish that he knows he’s ill-equipped to weather, but he pushes his fears aside for a moment and tries to think of something pleasant, like one of his many memories of Noctis standing at the end of a dock on some quaint little pond with a fishing rod in has hands and the breeze in his hair. Then he drops his coat and his harness on the settee before toeing off his boots beside it, gently placing his Alstoemaria in its sheath on the seat, and finally joining Ardyn in the adjacent room. 

The room in question turns out to be a large bedroom, with a desk and a fireplace at one end, above which sits a massive portrait of the late Emperor Aldecapt, and a rather spectacular four-poster bed with velvetine red curtains at the other. Dead ahead stands Ardyn, his own coat discarded on the armchair beside him, gazing out a window at the snowy landscape below. When he turns, he extends a rather expensive set of binoculars to Prompto and says, “I trust this will satisfy you.”

Prompto’s feet carry him forward. He takes the binoculars and searches the slope for any sign of his companions. It takes him a second, but he eventually spots a set of snowmobiles off in the distance; upon one, he can distinctly see Aranea with her Stoss Spear held protectively at her side as they race against the darkness creeping up over the mountains. Fortunately, it’s only a short trip between here and the outpost, which means they’ll likely make it there before the daemons appear.

When Prompto lowers the binoculars, he realizes Ardyn is no longer beside him. The man is now halfway across the room, fiddling with a decanter containing some dark amber liquid that’s sitting on the corner of the desk. He’s set out two glasses from its tray but fills only one before he glances at Prompto and says, “Would you care to partake, or are still suffering from delusions of abstinence?”

It’s a stupid jab, because Prompto’s self-restraint is still well and thriving, but he gets what Ardyn means here, that it hardly seems worth it to refrain from doing something based on principle alone when it’s already been forced upon you.

Even so, Prompto shakes his head, setting the binoculars down gently on the seat of the armchair as he quietly says, “I’ll pass.”

Ardyn hums to himself, either in curiosity or confusion, but returns the decanter to its tray. Then he picks up his glass and turns around to lean back against the desk, crossing one ankle casually over the other before he samples his drink. He closes his eyes as he does so and keeps them closed until well after he’s lowered the glass from his lips, as if he hasn’t savored anything half as delightful in quite some time.

Prompto, who has absolutely no idea what he should be doing right now, stands awkwardly by the window with his hands at his sides, slowly clenching and unclenching them anxiously. When Ardyn’s eyes fall on him again, Prompto looks down and away, keeping his gaze fixed on the dark mauve carpet between them.

The ensuing silence is absolute murder. 

Finally, though, Ardyn says, “Do you know why Noctis must die?”

Ardyn’s question, though softly spoken, startles Prompto. He shudders before he looks up again, then gives a small shake of his head.

As usual, Ardyn looks deeply amused with Prompto’s lack of knowledge on the subject. He takes another sip of his drink before he says, “The gods of the Hexatheon do not sit at the very top of the astral hierarchy. They protect Eos because they serve something much greater than themselves, something that charged them with this duty. That same ‘something’ created the Crystal, which contains more power than even Bahamut himself.”

As usual, Prompto can hear Ardyn’s disdain for the god bleeding through his calm facade.

“In fact,” Ardyn continues as he gently rotates his wrist, swirling the liquor in his glass, “it contains a power greater than that of all the gods combined. That’s where the ‘ten years’ come into play, my boy. It’s a delicate process by which a mortal man is to be infused with the Crystal’s powers, but when he emerges, he will be more powerful than any Astral on Eos.”

Even though Prompto is still on the fence about whether or not Ardyn is making this all up on the go, he can follow along with that logic. The kings of Lucis have been using the Crystal’s powers for over a hundred generations, yet the Crystal never wavered, and it was destined to bestow something greater than anything the other kings had experienced before on Noctis once he was ready to fulfill his destiny. This ten-year slumber didn’t seem all that far-fetched when you thought about it that way.

Polishing off his drink in one go, Ardyn sets his glass down on the desk with a heavy thunk and pushes off his perch with languid ease. The only light in the room comes from the few electric wall sconces surrounding them, which have been set to a dim glow and give Ardyn’s saunter something of a hypnotic edge as he approaches.

The small animal part of Prompto’s brain that’s supposed to deal with fear and aggression decides to glue his feet to the floor instead of maintaining the distance between them. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, bracing himself, and hopes it isn’t apparent how shallow he’s suddenly breathing or how some of the perspiration beading on his brow is fresh. 

Ardyn advances until they’re only a few feet apart, towering over Prompto. He’s smiling, but there’s something cold in his eyes as he continues his narration. “The Astrals have hated mankind for almost as long as they’ve adored it. They could never abide to have a mortal man more powerful than themselves wandering the globe, which is why their champion must perish once he’s fulfilled his duty.” His smile changes into more of a sneer. “Petty, isn’t it?”

“You…” Prompto pauses a moment to lick his lips, which are unbearably dry. “You said there was nothing we could do to save him without ‘assistance’. What did you mean by that?”

“Of all the kings of Lucis, your friend was only chosen to bear this terrible weight because Versteal’s experiments reawakened the scourge directly before his birth, the flames of which I have been fanning for the past twenty years. This malady that Eos suffers must reach a fever pitch before it can be vanquished, but if it were to _dwindle…_ ”Ardyn looks down at his hands, tugging off his fingerless gloves almost absentmindedly, as if they were discussing something as trivial as the weather. “...then upon his return, Noctis would be forced to wait a little longer for his demise.”

With the rate at which the nights were getting longer, Prompto didn’t see how that was possible. Eos was in dire straits, that much was clear, and in desperate need of help pretty much yesterday. Noctis couldn’t afford to delay the inevitable.

Even so, Prompto finds himself asking, “How would you do that?”

After Ardyn has removed his gloves, he tosses them onto the armchair. Then he reaches out for Prompto, much in the same way he did during their trip to the Disc of Cauthess, only now he doesn’t come up short of his target. This time, his fingertips grace Prompto’s throat, hovering there for a moment as Prompto swallows before gently grasping his chin and tilting his face up toward Ardyn. 

“Slowly,” Ardyn replies, voice low and sultry, stepping just a half step closer, “I would take the daemons back into myself, much as I did as a mortal man. Once I’ve had my ten years on the throne, I will hardly care how much time passes until the final confrontation. Noctis won’t be able to fight me if he can’t find me when he returns.”

With Ardyn’s hand at his throat, Prompto’s reminded of the time that the other man kissed him. The taste of tar that assaulted his tongue after he bit Ardyn in retaliation is still fresh in his mind. Knowing that Ardyn is inflicted with the scourge, Prompto wonders how close he came to picking up the disease himself before Ardyn intervened, his touch uncharacteristically warm and soothing, like that of a healer’s.

If Ardyn could undo just a little of the evil he’d already done—or even simply keep the scourge from spreading any further, then maybe...well... _maybe…_

“What would you expect to get out of this?” Prompto asks, because Ardyn isn’t the sort of person who’d put the interests of others before his own.

“Beyond the satisfaction of defying the gods?” Ardyn chuckles. “I’m sure my _dear_ brother would lament the delay in achieving the eternal peace he’s been longing for these past two thousand years, but even that is merely a bonus. Ten years, my boy, sitting upon a throne that was my right by birth...” Ardyn tips Prompto’s chin up a little further, the faint wisp of alcohol from his breath sharp on Prompto’s tongue as he moves his own face a little closer “...and basking in the devotion of _my_ people— _that_ is what I want, and _that_ is what you are more than capable of giving me. Don’t you think so? If not for me, then perhaps your darling Noct?”

“I…” Prompto swallows again, mind racing. Noctis is his king—Noctis is the _King of Kings_ , and his destiny is pretty much written in stone. But who’s to say that his destiny must be met the moment he returns? As far as prophecies go, the gods and their messengers left humanity with _nothing_ to inform them of how long this whole process was supposed to take. “I don’t know…”

“Then let’s find out, shall we?”

Prompto screws his eyes shut tight as Ardyn slowly ducks his head to press his lips against the corner of his mouth. Prompto stands stock-still as Ardyn bestows one featherlight kiss after another along his jaw until he relinquishes his hold on Prompto’s chin and tucks his face into the crook of his neck. Then he suddenly drops his hands to Prompto’s hips, pulling Prompto flush against him.

At this unfortunate proximity, Prompto can tell that Ardyn is already hard.

His stomach roils in disgust.

It’s something of a small blessing then that Ardyn makes no outward demands of him. He grabs the hem of Prompto’s sweater and pulls it up over his head, hands then moving to fiddle with Prompto’s belt buckle as Ardyn begins herding him toward the bed. 

Prompto is still breathing shallowly, beginning to feel a little lightheaded, but now he can hear the soft pant of Ardyn’s breath, too. The other man doesn’t bother hiding how eager he is when the back of Prompto’s knees hit the mattress before he gives the boy a hard shove, toppling Prompto over onto the gaudy bedspread. He pauses then only a moment to drink in the sight of Prompto’s pale, heaving chest before he divests Prompto of what remains of his clothing.

The only reprieve Prompto finds from his ministrations is when Ardyn finally takes a step back to remove his own clothes, the fancy scarf and vest, the starched white dress-shirt, the pinstripe pants—until he stands before Prompto completely bare, one hand moving to his cock to give it a stroke. Prompto spares it no more than a glance, wondering how this all worked the last time, if it had perhaps been easy for Ardyn to stick it in while Prompto had been unconscious. Maybe Ardyn had really done him a favor by knocking him out then. As it stands, Prompto doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this tonight by his will alone.

In a blind panic, he scoots a little farther back across the bed and glances over his shoulder at the door as Ardyn turns to grab something from the bedside table. Even knowing the futility of trying to escape, Prompto gives an honest thought toward bolting it out of there. He foolishly left his Alstroemeria in the antechamber; it won’t stop Ardyn, but if Prompto could share even just an _ounce_ of his pain with the other man, it would be well worth it to make a mad dash for the blade so he could jab it between the bastard’s— 

The hand on his ankle startles Prompto back into the here and now. Ardyn quickly plants a knee between Prompto’s legs before he crawls over him, tossing something on the bed beside them before blanketing Prompto’s body with his own. His skin is oddly cold to the touch. Prompto wonders if that’s because of the scourge.

And, holy _fuck_ , worrying about diseases, veneral or otherwise, on top of everything else is the absolute _last_ thing Prompto needs right now as he suddenly bursts into tears. He turns his face to the side, half-burying it in the bedspread, because there’s some primitive part of his brain that still feels ashamed for this weakness, for letting it all out. Ardyn, of course, couldn’t give a damn that Prompto’s reached his breaking point, amusing himself with his stupid fixation on Prompto’s neck, teeth grazing the skin just below his ear. In fact, he starts to grind against Prompto now, smearing precum between them, like some overexcited dog.

“Did you know,” Ardyn breathlessly inquires out of fucking nowhere, as if they were exchanging pleasantries and not moments away from being intimately connected, “that apparently every man is born with a destiny? I’ve thrown off my shackles, but you still bow to the whims of the gods. Even here, on your back, you are serving them.”

Before he met Noctis, before they started on their journey across Eos, Prompto didn’t know what to think of the gods. Some days, he had a hard time believing they were real, even after waking each morning to see the Crystal’s Wall around Insomnia or the occasional elemancy that danced across Noctis’ fingertips. Now that he’s watched the gods intervene on Noct’s behalf, he wonders how much truth there is to what Ardyn is saying. Once upon a time, he thought he was too small for the attention of the gods, just another speck in a sea of people, all of whom were born and suffered and eventually died like clockwork. But after all the things he’s been through, including learning about the circumstances of his birth, he wonders if the gods didn’t know that Ardyn would come for him once Noctis was interned within the Crystal, if Prompto’s suffering hadn’t also been a part of The Plan.

He doesn’t think his sanity could withstand it if it was.

“ _Stop it_ ,” Prompto breathes. 

Stop touching him, stop tormenting him, stop telling him about all the things he _doesn’t_ _need to know_.

“If you ally yourself with me, I can,” Ardyn chuckles. He reaches for something beside Prompto’s hip as he leans back slightly. This is followed by a small snap, like the sound of a lid popping open. “I know their dark whims better than anyone. They denied me everything when they imprisoned me in Angelgard, more than just the crown. Food, water, warmth...even the company of another living being. I went mad long before Verstael found me. If you let them, the gods will drive you mad, too.”

Prompto shudders, because he knows that the alternative to serving the gods is to serve _him_ , and bartering for his companions’ freedom today is already proving to be more than he can handle. 

“Just a little food for thought,” Ardyn muses. Then he slips his hand between Prompto’s legs and pushes his first finger in.

It’s a far from pleasant sensation, one that has Prompto squirming beneath him. He doesn’t understand how people endure this sort of thing in a normal, loving relationship. It seems like a lot of pressure for one person to undertake just for the sake of their partner’s pleasure.

Of course, as Ardyn leans forward to blanket him once more, kissing his throat and his jaw, he turns Prompto’s world on its head again. With the way he’s crooking his finger inside of Prompto, scraping against him unpleasantly, he eventually encounters a bundle of nerves that puts an unexpected twist on everything. How Prompto could forget about his goddamn prostate, he has no clue, but pressing on it still doesn’t have quite the effect on him that he thought it would. It gives him an undoubtable ache in his loins, stiffening him up exactly as would be expected, but he’s still cold with fear and winds up just feeling nauseated on top of everything else.

Naturally, Ardyn doesn’t care about his confusion or his quasi-discomfort. A second finger soon follows the first, and this time Ardyn doesn’t seem as concerned about discovering what makes Prompto tick as he does scissoring them apart to stretch him out a little further. 

Prompto continues to squirm beneath him, nails digging into Ardyn’s shoulders, just trying to _breathe_ past the mixed signals coming from his body, although that gets a little harder when Ardyn briefly squeezes in a third.

But honestly? As much as the fingers hurt, Prompto can stomach having them curl around inside him more than what he knows what is coming next. If not Ardyn’s fingers, Prompto knows he would’ve had a doctor’s poking around in there someday if he ever lived long enough to worry about prostate cancer. Therefore, it's somehow worse to feel them retreating suddenly as Ardyn sits up to grab the foiled condom beside the bottle of lube, bad enough that Prompto can’t force himself to watch. Instead, he stares up at the canopy above the bed, the tears that are pooling at the corners of his eyes spilling over across his temples and into his hair. 

Gods, he wishes he wasn’t so weak.

In the lower periphery of his vision, he can see Ardyn rolling on the condom and slicking himself up. When his cold hand then touches Prompto’s knee and triggers a small flinch, Ardyn outright laughs, “This isn’t something you haven’t done before.”

And, yeah, maybe it isn’t, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Prompto as Ardyn pulls his hips up across his thighs, lines himself up, and fucking _moans_ as he forces his way inside.

While the fingers were uncomfortable, this _hurts_. Prompto reaches down to grab the hands on his hips. “Slow down,” he gasps.

Ardyn doesn’t. He pushes through the resistance despite Prompto’s sob of pain and immediately settles into a steady rhythm. He might not be nailing Prompto to the bed, but he’s still relentless, rocking in and out, eyes half-lidded as he stares up and away into some distant place.

Through his pain, Prompto idly wonders where Ardyn has run off to inside his head or what kind of conversations he might be having with himself as he mutes out all the little sounds of agony coming from Prompto. Or maybe his mind is completely blank; maybe he’s just enjoying the ride. One of them might as well, because Prompto probably isn’t ever going to reach nirvana in his lifetime. He feels uncomfortably full in a way that he’s not soon to forget, and even if Ardyn glances across his prostate every few thrusts, Prompto’s sore more than anything from the way Ardyn is rubbing against his insides. No wonder some people see sex as a chore.

Eventually, the pain dwindles into more of a dull ache. It’s...bearable, even with Ardyn groaning every so often in a way that Prompto thought only overdramatic men in pornos did. It makes him feel a little cheap, like a ‘thing’ less than a person, something to be used right up until the money shot.

The physical sensation changes again when Ardyn finally approaches his climax. His grip on Prompto’s hips turns vice-like as he leans slightly forward, thrusting hard and deep. 

Wincing, Prompto lies there and continues to stare up at the canopy, willing it to be over.

Ardyn comes with a broken cry, having the decency to brace one hand against the bed before he falls forward instead of collapsing entirely onto Prompto. With his other hand, he runs his fingers through his sweat slick hair, gasping and smiling, like he couldn’t be more pleased with the outcome. Prompto’s half-afraid the other man is going to kiss him like he did the first time, right on the mouth, but instead the man pulls out and sluggishly moves off the bed to dispose of his condom.

As much as he hurts, Prompto’s still got that other ache between his legs, the less painful kind that quietly requests a little reciprocation. However, Prompto’s too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to deal with it. Nor does he want Ardyn dealing with it, which is why he immediately pushes Ardyn’s hand away when the other man suddenly joins him again on the bed.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Prompto snaps, the first firm command he’s made of the other man tonight.

Ardyn’s bemused smile scares him, but Ardyn fortunately leaves the matter at that. “As you wish,” he murmurs before he lifts his hand and snaps his fingers.

Immediately, the room is plunged into darkness.

Prompto’s heart leaps up into his throat. He struggles against Ardyn for a moment when the other man slips a hand around his waist, but Ardyn’s intentions turn out to be innocent enough. He merely lies down beside Prompto, breath warm against the side of Prompto’s face as he gradually falls asleep.

Prompto was kind of hoping Ardyn would give him a little space after everything was said and done, but he supposes he should be grateful Ardyn is more interested in catching a little shut-eye than starting another round. So there Prompto lies, staring up into the darkness, listening as Ardyn’s breaths turn deep and even before Prompto feels the pull of sleep behind his own eyes.

It takes him a while, but he eventually allows himself to succumb to his exhaustion.

And then he dreams of eternity again.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Prompto's still got a pretty big problem looming on the horizon, but tomorrow's problems are tomorrow's problems. He'll deal with it when he gets there. For now, he's finally going to get a some answers out of someone who isn't Ardyn...


	12. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. This chapter was quite a bit longer than the previous ones. Even so, I hope you enjoy it!

~***~

He begins his dream in the darkness.

He’s sitting on the ground somewhere with his back pressed up against a cold slab of stone, hugging his knees to his chest as he sobs quietly into the void. There’s a crushing weight wedged right above his diaphragm, a suffocating grief that’s slowly squeezing the life out of him one shuddering breath at a time. He feels like he’s lost something important, _longing_ for something that can never be returned to him. The world as he knows it has been thrown into chaos, and he’s powerless to do anything about it. 

Prompto loses track of how long he spends in that all-consuming darkness. It sucks him in and holds him captive for what feels like hours before it comes to an end, first with the sound of stone grating against stone and then with a warm light that blossoms into existence somewhere far behind him. Initially, the change in scenery startles him, having assumed that he was alone in this strange place, but then a small voice at the back of his mind tells him that he’s never really been alone, and intuitively Prompto knows that to be the truth.

When Prompto lifts his head from its perch against his knees, he realizes he’s sitting on the floor of one of the royal tombs. Directly ahead of him stands the doleful statue of a woman Prompto always assumed represented Etro, the goddess of death, and a glance over his shoulder informs him that he is leaning against the altar where a departed king would normally lay. However, as he rises to his feet, he realizes no one is there; instead of a stone coffin, someone has spread a white cloth over the altar, upon which sits a bouquet of fresh syllablossums and alstroemerias. 

Gradually, Prompto’s grief gives way to confusion. He reaches out to touch the flowers, but then a shadow passes over the mouth of the tomb, drawing his attention to the door. He waits a moment to see if someone is about to join him. When no one appears, he walks around the altar and steps out into the light.

Before him stretches a field of wheat, tassels bowing to the wind in rhythmic waves that pass up and over the surrounding hills. The sun sits low on the horizon, although Prompto feels as though it’s on the rise, ascending into the bluest of skies covered with puffy white clouds, the sort he used to see in his childhood dreams. 

Entranced, Prompto makes his way through the field, climbing a nearby hill to get a better view of his surroundings. Here and there, the landscape is dotted with trees, and far off to his right, he spots a winding river. If he squints, he thinks he can see what looks like the silhouette of four people standing together on it’s beach, although they’re too far away to call out to them and introduce himself. Even so, he feels, deep in his heart, that he absolutely needs to speak with them.

Eager to ask someone about this strange place, Prompto starts down the hill, but he’s quickly distracted by a flash of color in the corner of his left eye. He turns his head to track it, only to blind himself with the rising sun. Still determined to discover what it is, he summons his camera from the armiger and lifts it to his eye, focusing the lens on the horizon.

Expecting to see a bird or some other animal in the distance, Prompto is surprised to instead find a miasma of faint colors that slowly fold over and into themselves in a kaleidoscopic whirl. Gradually, those colors resolve themselves into an apparition, a being of pure light with golden eyes, which lifts an elegant finger and taps him gently on the forehead.

Like a top that’s losing its spin, Prompto feels himself wobbling momentarily on his feet. He returns his camera to the armiger in the fear that he might drop it, but eventually his surroundings fall back into focus. Oddly enough, the sudden shift in reality triggers a sense of déjà vu, as if he’s been through this whole process at least once before and shouldn’t be afraid of the startling transition.

As soon as he’s gotten his bearings, Prompto glances up at the apparition again. It looks a little more human now, although still overexposed by its internal light. He thinks he can make out the soft peachy hue of skin and the gentle fold of white robes and the prismatic flicker of paper thin wings. She—he?— _they_ are the most beautiful entity he’s ever seen, the sort of ethereal being that normally belongs somewhere in the old Lucian tales of the celestial and the divine.

“I know you,” Prompto breathes, confused. Their name is on the tip of his tongue, dancing just beyond his reach. “We’ve already met, haven’t we?”

 _“We have had this conversation many times before,”_ the entity replies with a voice as soft as the murmur of the wind. _“The human mind is a fragile thing, but yours is adjusting. With time, you will remember me in the waking world.”_

He thinks of his fevers and his dreams and all the bizarre little things he apparently said while he was sleeping, and it dawns on him that this entity has been trying to communicate with him ever since he came back to Niflheim. 

“...‘ _Metelyk_ ’ ,” Prompto says as he finally pulls that sliver of information from the farthest reaches of his mind. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

 _“I am Metelyk,”_ they quietly confirm, “ _a messenger of Bahamut and a guardian of the Light. I have been tasked with preparing the world for the return of the True King.”_

“What do we need to do to get him back?” Prompto asks, hopeful despite the way his heart begins to sink. He feels like he’s asked this question before—in fact, he’s _sure_ he has.

And he already knows that he isn’t going to like the answer.

 _“The True King will return of his own accord,”_ Metelyk replies. _“He will spend ten years in reflection, claiming the power of the Crystal for his own. Once he is ready, he will be delivered to Angelgard, where he will begin his journey to the land of his birth.”_

Prompto’s heart sinks even further. “I...I was hoping Ardyn was lying about that. Ten years...well, it’s a long time.”

Metelyk says nothing as Prompto turns away from them, rubbing his eyes, trying to convince himself that they sting from the light and not his mounting tears. If Ardyn was telling him the truth about Noct’s imprisonment, did that mean Ardyn was right about _everything_? 

Could the gods really be so cruel?

“What’s going to happen when he returns?” he asks, somewhat louder than he intended, although he doesn’t regret letting his anguish seep through into his voice. What’s the point of keeping his emotions in check when the gods and their ilk already know how much he’s suffered?

 _“You and your companions will go to him,”_ they continue, as if the future’s been written in stone and Prompto has no choice on the matter, _“and together you will return to his people, to remind them that the salvation of the world is at hand. Adagium will challenge you, but the True King will not falter. Once the Usurper falls, you will deliver the True King to the altar, where the last of his sacrifices will be made—”_

“His _life_ ,” Prompto snaps, turning back to Metelyk. He can feel his rage bubbling up inside of him, but it’s hard to get a hold on it when he’s bathed in Metelyk’s light. It chases away that darkness, leaving only the faint ache of grief in its wake. It breaks him, and now his tears flow freely. “You’re...you’re giving him just _one day_ to live again before you take it all away from him. How is that even _remotely_ fair? Why does _he_ have to die?”

Through the haze of his tears, he watches as Metelyk raises a hand toward him. As frightened as he is, Prompto doesn’t draw away, instead hugging his arms close to his chest as the messenger gently cups the side of his face. _“Though the scourge has manifested on Eos, the disease extends far into the Astral plane. All whom the disease has claimed throughout time wait in anguish there, longing for release. Their bounds can only be broken by the True King.”_

Prompto doesn’t know what to say to that. He always knew Noctis was destined for greatness, and what greater calling could there be than to relieve everyone in the world of their suffering? None, really...and he knows that Noctis, being the kind of guy that he is, would happily lay down his life in a heartbeat for the people he loves.

But there’s still a selfish part of Prompto that doesn’t want it to be true. 

If what Metelyk says comes to pass, he and Noctis will never chat about all the small and seemingly inconsequential details of their lives again. They’ll never watch another movie or play another video game together. They’ll never laugh about their inability to woo the ladies or groan about the super-adult and responsible things demanded of them in polite company. They will probably never even _smile_ again when Noctis returns, because how on Eos are you supposed to muster the strength to feign happiness when your life as you know it is over?

Prompto closes his eyes and cries a little harder, shoulders trembling, feeling like he’s falling apart at the seams. “I can’t do it,” he gasps between one breath and the next, “I can’t deliver him to...to his _death_.”

 _“You will,”_ Metelyk whispers, dropping their hand from his face to his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. They sound almost a touch sad when they then say, _“He will not succeed without you or his other champions by his side.”_

“And why _me_?” Prompto sobs. Their friendship was supposed to be Noct’s one little civilian indulgence in life that wasn’t under tight regulation or scrutiny from the crown. As a literal nobody, Prompto was the medium through which Noctis could live a half-way normal life—yet here Prompto was, another tool through which Noctis would be delivered to his doom. “I just wanted to be his friend. I just...I…”

 _“You were carefully chosen to be a symbol of Eos,”_ Metelyk explains. _“You represent the fact that there is no man, woman, or child undeserving of salvation. Your value is immeasurable.”_

Prompto blinks up at the messenger through his tears, confused. “What do you mean?” he asks.

 _“You were birthed from an act against nature,”_ Metelyk replies, and as they say it, the horrors Prompto uncovered the last time he was in Niflheim spring to mind, the memory of his clones all lined up their stasis tubes and the demonification of his fully grown brothers, _“created to be destroyed, and in being destroyed, your father intended you to become a tool of destruction. Throughout human history, there are many who would consider you nothing more than a perversion of nature, solely the embodiment of the sins of your father. Adagium himself sees you as merely an extension of that man, his ally by right of birth. He thinks the same of the True King, his enemy by right of birth.”_

And that was really just the most baffling thing about Ardyn, when you considered it, this deep-seated hatred for Noctis, who was over a hundred generations removed from the man that supposedly hurt Ardyn in the first place— _Noctis_ , who was easily one of the kindest people Prompto knew and the most undeserving of the shitty hand destiny dealt him. 

Slowly, Metelyk withdraws their arm. They turn toward the horizon, the fractals of their light shifting as they move, presumably to admire the rising sun. Then they say, _“You are not the circumstances of your birth, Prompto Argentum, and while Adagium has accepted the alternative as his truth, the King of Kings is wiser. Even knowing what you are, the True King can look upon you with nothing more than love. This is why he is the Chosen One. Through you, he has demonstrated that he knows every man is worth_ **_all_ ** _men, even the scion of one of his greatest enemies.”_

While it was comforting to know that Noctis’ good nature was obvious even to the Astrals above, Prompto can’t shake the queasy feeling that Ardyn was right yet again, that Prompto was bound to the whims of the gods and that his suffering was all a part of some greater plan.

“Then why are the gods punishing me?” he asks, feeling small. He never wanted any of this attention, least of all from them. “Did I do something wrong?”

Metelyk turns back to him suddenly, golden eyes softening. They reach out to take one of Prompto’s hands in their own. _“You have done_ **_nothing_ ** _wrong. Again, you represent the fact that Eos is worth its salvation. After you thought the True King had cast you out, you wandered through the frozen desert to return to him. Even bound and beaten, your love for him did not waver, nor did your longing to prove your worth to him. Your suffering reflects the suffering of the world and your perseverance its ability to carry on and love despite that suffering. It is through you that the gods see how deserving Eos is to be relieved of its burden.”_

“And what about now?” Prompto sobs, gently retracting his hand as he takes a step back. Though he can remember the unique pain of waking up bound to that cross in Gralea, his bruised ribs crying out in agony with every labored breath, the experience still didn’t quite compare to what Ardyn had done to him recently. Stripped down and taken, first by physical force and then by coercion, Prompto never knew someone could be brought so low, that they could feel so helpless, so... _insignificant_. “You know what he’s done to me, don’t you? Was that all a part of the plan?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Metelyk moves slightly closer, although they don’t try to touch Prompto again. _“All who live in Eos will continue to suffer until the True King returns, and while it is the intended fate of the True King’s champions to safeguard humanity in his absence, Adagium’s plans with you are his own. Your desecration was not our intention. We do not know how he intends to make you suffer, only that he_ ** _will_** _make you suffer_ _and that he will try to tempt you away from your destiny.”_

“And what if he’s succeeding?” he mutters, even though he doesn’t know if Ardyn’s managed to convince him of anything yet. So far, all that Ardyn’s done to him is hurt him. 

Much to his dismay, Metelyk doesn’t seem fazed about his defiance. _“You might ally yourself with Adagium in the coming years, but your love for the True King will never falter. Your destiny remains unchanged. When the True King returns, you will stand by him.”_

Prompto can feel his anger dwindling again. He loves Noct like a brother, and even the Astrals know that that will never change, despite whatever honeyed lies Ardyn tries to feed him in the years to come. Prompto will just...well, he’ll just have to find a way to weather through it.

Which is easier said than done. Feeling overwhelmed again, he turns away from the messenger, hands on his hips, vision blurring with more tears. In the distance, he can still see those four figures by the river bend. One of them, he realizes, is dressed in white.

“What is this place?” he asks with a soft sniffle, feeling somehow calmer at the sight of them. He knows those people. He’s sure of it.

 _“Eternity,”_ Metelyk says as they step up beside him. _“Or a representation of eternity, rather, for your time has yet to come. This is what follows after.”_

“After what?” he asks, although he already has an inkling.

_“After your last breath on Eos. This is what awaits all of humanity.”_

Even though he’s too far away to tell, Prompto feels as though the people by the river are staring at him, waiting for him. He knows them—he _knows_ them...

...Gladio. 

Ignis. 

Lunafreya…

And Noctis.

Prompto never gave heaven or hell much thought growing up. He was too busy trying to figure out how to survive one day to the next on Eos to really worry about the afterlife. Given what he’s seen on this journey with Noctis, he obviously knows by now that there’s something _beyond_ this life, but it isn’t until this very moment that he realizes Noctis has a place to go when this is all over, somewhere he can be happy.

Somewhere he doesn’t have to be alone.

There’s a sudden swell of emotions inside his chest that takes Prompto by surprise. He collapses to his knees and cries, turning his face to bury it in the folds of Metelyk’s robes when they lower themself to envelop him in their arms. 

_“You will be rewarded for your sacrifice,”_ Metelyk whispers, stroking a hand through his hair with the soothing touch of a mother, _“Though you continue to suffer on Eos, remember that you have our blessing. We will watch over you and protect you however we can.”_

If Ardyn is really a free agent of the universe, Prompto can’t see how anyone can do anything to really help him. However, he seems to recall the warped image of the Patria that assaulted him outside the second outpost, the one that had him in its sights but still somehow failed to see him. Looking back on the incident, he can’t help but wonder if that wasn’t a little bit of divine intervention on Metelyk’s part, a sample of their mastery of light in play to conceal him.

Despite the hardships ahead of him, Prompto can feel himself relaxing in their embrace. Metelyk continues to hold him until his sobs have subsided and the tension leaves his body. _“Should you remember me in the waking world,”_ they say, _“call upon me in your hour of need, and I will come to you.”_

“Why can’t you come to me now?” he asks. He doesn’t want to go back there alone, not with Ardyn lying curled up beside him on the bed, waiting for Prompto to return to his waking nightmare. Oddly enough, though, the thought of what else Ardyn intends to do to him wearies him more than it frightens him, like he’s been stretched too far and too thin to find the energy to be afraid anymore. It instead leaves him feeling cold and resigned.

 _“The human mind is a fragile thing,”_ Metelyk reminds him. _“We must avoid interfering with the mortal world when you are unprepared. And Adagium…”_ For the first time since this conversation began, Metelyk’s voice wavers with a weariness not too unlike his own. _“Adagium will not allow us to interfere with ‘his’ people. We must be covert in how we help you.”_

He supposes some help is better than no help, but it’s a curious notion, this idea of being one of _‘Ardyn’s’_ people... It still feels strange picturing the other man as a king of Lucis—a king of _anything_ , really, because how was Ardyn supposed to care for ‘his’ people when he didn’t really ‘care’ about anyone? It seemed like a lot of responsibility for someone so lackadaisical and flippant.

Before Prompto’s train of thought wanders too far from the here and now, something catches his attention in the corner of his eye. He turns his head to stare at the small white butterfly that lands on a tassel of wheat beside him. It clings to the stalk as it bows to the wind, a seemingly fragile creature unruffled by one of the greatest forces of nature.

Watching the butterfly, Prompto feels a kind of calm wash over him. His worldly troubles cease to matter to him anymore. They can’t touch him here, not now and not at the end of his days on Eos.

Although he has more questions to ask, he feels himself slipping away, eyelids fluttering shut as Metelyk continues to hold him, bathing him in their ethereal light. He wants to stay here for just a while longer, but he knows that there are people waiting for him in the waking world.

People who are waiting for him to save them.

~***~

Considering everything that’s happened to him so far, he somehow manages to slip into a remarkably deep sleep. In fact, when Prompto wakes, he barely remembers where he is or whose bed he’s lying on, only that he cares less about those little details than he probably should at the moment. That, and he’s incredibly grateful to be alone.

Prompto rubs a hand against his eyes and then blinks up at the dark red canopy above the bed. Someone threw a thin blanket over him in the night, one that he somehow managed to thoroughly entangle himself with. Detangling himself isn’t a priority, though, especially when he moves his legs and is reminded of the dull ache between his thighs, because _then_ he remembers everything that occurred the night before, and suddenly his primary concern is figuring out his exit strategy before he has to deal with Ardyn again.

Unfortunately, it soon turns that he isn’t, in fact, _alone_. There’s the soft rustle of a page turning over at the far end of the room where the desk is, presumably because Ardyn has decided to do a little light reading first thing in the morning. Prompto lies there for a moment, completely still, to see if that’s all that the other man is up to. When he hears another page turning over, he realizes there’s no way he’s going to slip out of this room unseen, so he might as well bite the bullet and face the bastard.

When Prompto sits up, he tugs one half of the blanket up and over his shoulder and keeps the other half draped across his lap, still intuitively protecting his modesty even though Ardyn’s already seen him without a stitch of clothing on. The curtains have been thrown wide open, flooding the room with a pale rosy light that is uncharacteristic for this time of day, which the clock above the door states is a little after 11 o’clock. The increasing decline in daylight hours doesn’t surprise Prompto, but if Ardyn was right about the ten years the world will have to wait for Noctis’ return, then it means that Prompto has roughly a third of his life until then to look forward to living in a never ending darkness.

As he suspected, Ardyn is sitting fully dressed at the desk at the other end of the room. He has his right leg draped over one armrest of his chair as he leans heavily into the other with his elbow while he flips through what appears to be a thick manual. There’s a box sitting on the desk a little off to his left and several files spread out before him, as if he spent the better part of the morning combing through them for information. Prompto doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but it apparently has him bored to the point of tears, as evidenced by the yawn Ardyn doesn’t bother hiding as he suddenly snaps the manual shut and tosses it onto the desk. Then he closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose, as if he can’t understand why life couldn’t be simpler for him.

After a moment of silence, Ardyn lowers his hand and casts his gaze toward Prompto, offering his involuntary companion a wolfish smile. “Even though your father manages to annoy me beyond the grave, all is forgiven at the sight of you first thing in the morning, my dear. Did you sleep well? I would imagine so.”

Prompto ignores his question and asks, “What exactly has he done to make your life difficult?”

Ardyn makes a small noise of annoyance as he gestures to the files on the desk. “His labeling system is atrocious, but I suppose you already knew that. Now, if you’d like—” He points to the corner of the room beside the bed, where a door Prompto somehow missed last night stands ajar, “—I suggest you take this opportunity to freshen up before we return you to your companions.”

Prompto blinks at the other man in surprise. “You’re...letting me go?”

The sharp bark of laughter he receives in response to his apparently naive question is the only answer he really needs, but Ardyn decides to clarify the matter a little further when he says, “I thought you might warm up to me a little if I allowed your companions to leave this facility alive. Unless I’m mistaken, a ship will be arriving for them this afternoon; it occurred to me that you might want to see them off safely before we make our way to Insomnia tonight.”

Prompto feels a little stupid for hoping Ardyn would lose interest in him so soon, so he tries to focus on the fact that Arenea and the others are going to live to see at least another day. Their continued well-being is the only reason he’s able to give the man an awkward nod and mumble a small ‘ _thank you_ ’ before he slips off the bed, his ridiculously long blanket in tow, and scans the floor for his clothes...which are missing.

It’s a good thing he’s clutching the blanket where it folds together over his chest, because as he takes a step around the bed to see if Ardyn had tossed his things haphazardly across the room again, something catches on the back of the blanket, nearly pulling the whole thing off his shoulders. He turns around to see Ardyn suddenly standing there, although whether the other man intended to trip him is uncertain. Ardyn at least has the decency to look as equally surprised when he glances down and moves the toe of his shoe just a smidgen to the left, off the tail of Prompto’s blanket. However, that doesn’t solve the other problem, which is their sudden proximity, something that Prompto knows was intentional.

Sure enough, Ardyn immediately swoops in for the proverbial kill as he slips a hand between the fold in Prompto’s blanket and presses it up against his stomach. He’s cold to the touch, which startles Prompto back a step, bumping into one of the bedposts and sucking in a breath as Ardyn’s hand migrates over his hip, hooking itself there as the other man steps further into his personal space.

With his other hand, Ardyn reaches up to briefly play with a strand of Prompto’s hair as he scans Prompto’s face, amber eyes alight, mouth crooked in a small smile. Then he cups Prompto’s chin and leans in to press their mouths together.

Prompto has never had his blood pressure spike so rapidly. He seizes up in fear, immediately thinking of Ardyn’s infection as the other man kisses him gently. There’s no probing tongue this time, thank the gods, but that doesn’t make the gesture any more welcome. It’s just another powerplay, one that has Prompto trembling as Ardyn slowly retreats, smiling down at his quarry in cruel satisfaction.

“You are temptation itself...” Ardyn breathes, as if he were entranced. “It would be all too easy to while the days away with you here in this room, but we’ll have time enough to indulge ourselves once we’ve returned to Insomnia.” He gives Prompto’s hip a teasing squeeze. “Off you go now, dearest.”

Prompto doesn’t have to be told twice. He hunches his shoulders together as he slips out from between Ardyn and the bedpost and makes a beeline toward the corner of the room, clutching the blanket around himself like a lifeline.

He slams the bathroom door shut behind himself a little harder than he intended, but it’s not as though Ardyn didn’t already know how unsettled he was. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Ardyn knew that he was seconds away from having a complete mental breakdown as he leans back against the door and slides down to the cold tiled floor. Then he hugs his knees against his chest and bows his head forward to sob into the fold of his arms, regretting for the upteenth time his decision to accompany Aranea on her trip back to Niflheim.

He spends an indeterminate amount of time crying like a child on the floor until his throat aches and his head feels uncomfortably swollen behind his eyes. Only then does he push himself back to his feet and make his way to the large shower across the room. Thankfully it takes all of three seconds for the water to run warm before he drops the blanket and steps inside, hoping to wash away the smell of sex and Ardyn for at least a little while before he has to do this horrifying song and dance all over again.

Closing his eyes, Prompto tries to focus on the hot spray of water against his back. It’s the nicest thing he’s felt in a while, although it doesn’t last for long once he decides to wash himself down. He scrubs some of the fancy shampoo and conditioner from the shower shelf into his hair and then lathers a bit of body soap in his hands to clean off the rest of his body. There’s no way of ignoring the bruises on his hips then, the angry little marks where Arydn really dug his thumbs in. Ardyn obviously handled him a little harder than Prompto was aware of at the time, but that doesn’t surprise him. The experience was painful enough that he would honestly be more surprised if he _hadn’t_ been marked up in some way.

He scrubs everywhere until his skin is red and sore, and then he stands under the hot spray of water a little longer to numb out the pain. Dimly, he realizes that he’ll have to ask Aranea and her crew to pass along another message to the guys back in Lestallum, this one a little more honest about the reality of the situation he’s landed himself in. It might be the last thing he says to them for who knows how long, so he’ll have to word it carefully. He doesn’t want them to think that this is in any way their fault, but he’s betting they will probably blame themselves anyway, especially Ignis, who really doesn’t need this on top of re-learning how to live his life again as a blind man...

It occurs to him that he might be taking too long when he hears the bathroom door creak open. Through the frosted glass of the shower stall, he watches as Ardyn’s silhouette tracks across the room. Prompto doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, worried that the other man intends to join him. Fortunately, Ardyn doesn’t. Instead, he deposits something on the counter beside the sink and then retreats back into the bedroom, flipping on the switch for the ventilation fan as he goes.

When the door clicks shut again, Prompto finally turns off the water. Stepping out of the shower, he grabs a towel off the nearby rack and wraps it around his waist, dripping water across the floor as he approaches the stack of neatly folded clothes and the pair of boots set beside the sink. 

It takes him a moment, but even before he unfolds the coat on top of the pile, he recognizes what this outfit is.

It’s his Kingsglaive uniform.

~***~

The only time that Prompto ever needed to visit a tailor was when Noctis brought him to the one employed by the palace, an elderly gentleman called Mr. West who usually fitted the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard for their uniforms.

And it was such a _weird_ experience standing up on that platform with his arms outstretched like a scarecrow while some old guy measured out his sleeves for about the hundredth time that hour. It was also a little nerve wracking, because while Noctis had been kind enough to tag along to every appointment, he spent most of the time sitting on a plush couch in the corner, leveling up past Prompto on King’s Knight while Ignis stood at his shoulder, watching Prompto like a hawk. 

While Prompto wore skinny jeans and too-tight t-shirts most of the time, he was still incredibly bodyshy, and he wouldn’t be lying if he said he didn’t feel as though he deserved to wear something so ridiculously fancy. Even when he had been invited to a few events at the palace as Noct’s emotional-support-animal-cum-plus-one-friend, he only wore a cheap tuxedo that he rented from a shop two blocks down from his apartment on the slum-ish side of town. Even though he wasn’t paying for this uniform himself, it was a struggle not to ask for something a little less expensive or showy—which was probably why Ignis made a point of tagging along. Prompto had accosted him with his ill-fitting tuxedo for the last time. 

“Can I ask you guys something?” Prompto mumbled as the tailor knelt down to pin up the hem of his left leg. Uncertain of what he was supposed to do with his arms at that point, he awkwardly dropped them back down to his sides. “If I’m becoming a member of the Crownsguard, why do I need a Kingsglaive uniform?”

“Being a member of the Crownsguard does not necessarily preclude you from becoming a member of the Kingsglaive,” Ignis replied. “And there is a degree of crossover between the duties of each group, so you might very well find yourself aiding them in the future. For now, you will likely only share their attire for formal events, although there are a few subtle differences between the two uniforms.”

Even though Prompto couldn’t see it at the moment, he was sure Ignis was referring to the intricate silver pattern embroidered on his shirt and the back of his coat. He always assumed that the design was the same for everyone...

Suddenly, something _very_ important occurred to him.

Bouncing excitedly on his toes—and then immediately apologizing to West for screwing up his work —Prompto asked, “Does this mean we’ll be able to warp like the glaives someday?”

For the first time since the appointment started, Noct peeled his eyes away from his phone. Grinning, he said, “You bet.”

“ _Someday_ ,” Ignis clarified, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Unlike the Kingsglaive, we draw on Noctis rather than the king for our powers. Until he inherits the Ring of Lucii, he won’t be strong enough to support anything more than our access to the armiger.” 

Even if that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, it was going to be the _coolest_ thing ever. Prompto was going to warp someday, like the Kingsglaive and the king and Noctis and...and...

Turning his head toward the folded mirrors in front of him, Prompto took in his pasty, over-freckled reflection and suddenly felt his stomach sink down into the floor. Who exactly _was_ he? An orphan adopted from who-knows-where and a commoner and possibly the scrawniest person ever employed by the palace. A nicer suit wasn’t going to make him feel any more welcomed at formal events. In fact, it only highlighted how ridiculously out of place he was in Noct’s retinue...

“Gods, I’m such a _rube_ ,” Prompto whispered to himself. 

“No you’re not.”

When Noctis suddenly appeared at his side, it startled Prompto hard enough that he jostled West’s arm and wound up with a pin in his calf. After a muttered warning from the elderly gentleman to hold still, he pulled out the pin and went to work on the hem of Prompto’s other leg.

Wincing, Prompto tried to ignore the sting in his calf as he laughed weakly and asked, “I’m not what, man?”

“A rube,” Noctis replied, having somehow heard him from all the way across the room. Which was kind of creepy, but then, as the heir to the throne, Noctis had probably received extensive training on how to keep his eyes and ears open while looking completely unattentive. 

There was no point in playing dumb anymore, so Prompto sighed and said, “I know. I just...I’m not the most sophisticated person in the world, and I’m sure it shows. Right now, I look like a kid who’s trying on his father’s uniform just for kicks.”

“You look slick,” Noctis snorted in retaliation, looking over Prompto’s reflection. “and if anyone deserves to wear these threads, it’s you.”

“You’ve already proven yourself worthy of the uniform,” Ignis added, “so wear it with pride.” 

“Wear it for me,” Noctis whispered, locking eyes with Prompto through their shared reflection, smiling softly. Then he touched Prompto’s shoulder gently and returned to the couch, flopping down onto the soft cushions as he whipped out his phone again.

Prompto took a slow, deep breath, trying not to jostle West as he finished up his work. Looking at his reflection, he thought, yeah, maybe he would never feel comfortable wearing this uniform for himself…

But he could definitely wear it for Noctis.

~***~

But could he wear it for Ardyn?

When Prompto unfolds the uniform on the bathroom counter and runs his fingers across the silver emblem on the sleeveless shirt, he thinks about how this symbolizes his ownership to the king. Once upon a time, that would’ve been Noctis, a man Prompto would practically do anything for without question. Now...now that meant _Ardyn_ , someone Prompto still considered his enemy. Which was ironic when you considered that Prompto had already given himself over to Ardyn in a way that Noctis _never_ would have demanded of him. In light of everything that’s happened, it seems kind of stupid to have a hangup about wearing this uniform for Ardyn’s sake when Prompto had already allowed the other man to ruin him.

He feels kind of numb as he puts on the uniform, hair still dripping wet as he buttons up his coat and steps out into the bedroom, not quite caring how presentable or not he might be. Ardyn is sitting at the desk again, lounging in the chair like some kind of oversized cat, offering Prompto another lecherous smile as he eyes him up.

“You are free to return to the outpost,” Ardyn finally says as he swaps the file in his hand for one of the many others spread across the desk. He begins skimming the top page. “I will collect you at nightfall. Just keep in mind, if I discover that you’ve left with the Commodore, her entire crew will bear the consequences of your mistake.”

Slowly, Prompto nods. Even if he wanted to, he’s not going to run. 

Ten years is plenty of time for Ardyn to hunt him down again.

“Oh, and before I forget...” Ardyn reaches down to lift something off his lap—and that _something_ turns out to be Prompto’s Alstroemeria.

Prompto sucks in his breath.

Tossing the file back onto the desk, Ardyn taps his finger against the point of the blade, eyebrows crooked with mild fascination as he takes in the faint etchings on the handle. Then he smiles up at Prompto again and asks, “Why do you bother carrying around a silly little thing like _this_ all day?” 

_‘Because it’s the only weapon in my personal arsenal that you don’t control,’_ Prompto thinks bitterly to himself. Instead, he says, “That’s mine…”

“I think you mean _‘ours’_ ,” Ardyn chuckles as he vanishes the knife into the armiger.

Prompto _knew_ Ardyn was going to do that, but it doesn’t hurt any less to watch as his Alstroemeria is stolen away from him. That was Iggy’s gift to him, possibly the last thing he’d ever see of the other man in who knows how many years to come. It had also been his salvation a few nights ago, but that’s probably why Arydn wanted to disarm him like this in the first place, to remind him that there is _nothing_ he can use to truly save himself.

As a lump of emotion lodges itself firmly in his throat, Prompto glances aside at the window and tries not to cry.

“That will be all,” Ardyn says dismissively, voice dripping with amusement as he waves Prompto off. Then he picks up his file again and resumes his work.

Prompto turns sharply on his heel and all but runs into the antechamber. His regular outerwear is missing from the bench, with the exception of his gloves, which he snatches quickly before ducking into the elevator.

He only lasts until the doors slide shut behind him before he sobs into his hand.

As much as he misses Noctis, he wishes to every god in the universe that he could see Gladio or Ignis right about now. He needs someone to tell him to keep his head together or man up, because he can’t personally think of a reason _not_ to have another mental breakdown. How is he supposed to survive the years to come with that _monster_? It feels like every time he thinks Ardyn’s truly hammered the helplessness of his situation home, the other man finds yet another way to knock him down a peg.

Prompto’s a sniffling mess by the time the elevator reaches the ground floor. He rubs the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand before he pulls on his gloves and turns sharply down the first corridor toward what he assumes is an exit. There are a few MTs stationed along the way, but they pay him no mind, standing silent and uncaring as he struggles to get a hold of himself on his way out the door. 

As soon as he steps out into the watery daylight, he spots an open shed to the left of the building, one that houses a few snowmobiles. It’s been quite some time since he drove one by himself, but thankfully the controls aren’t too complicated. He hops on one and backs up a few feet before turning toward the open gate of the chainmail fence surrounding the facility. Then he takes off up the mountain slope, wondering what he’s going to tell the others when he returns. 

Fortunately, it’s a short trip to the outpost. It only takes him about ten minutes before he glides around a familiar copse of trees and spots Aranea’s airship parked beside the outpost. The hangar door has been rolled open and there are about five people hauling large boxes around inside, stacking them together as they prepare for their extraction in what will hopefully be a short while.

They notice him immediately, of course, but they just kind of freeze when he pulls up between the airship and the hangar. One of them is Tantum, who nearly drops the toolkit in his arms when he realizes who it is he’s staring at.

“Holy shit,” Tantum says.

Behind Prompto, someone else simultaneously says, “Blondie?”

As Prompto dismounts his bike, he glances over his shoulder at the airship, where Aranea is jogging down the ramp to see him. Behind her, Prompto spots someone soldering two wall panels together, as if her crew still intends to leave here with their own ship in tow.

“Hey,” Prompto greets weakly. 

“You escaped?” Aranea asks, looking cautiously optimistic. She glances at his bike and then along the trail he left in the snow. “How’d you pull it off? Is Ardyn hot on your heels?”

“I didn’t escape,” Prompto replies.

Aranea snaps her head back around toward him. A wave of emotions quickly washes over her face, first confusion, then hurt, and finally anger before she pulls on her usual mask of cool indifference. “I can change that,” she offers without hesitation.

Prompto spares a glance at the people in the hangar, all of them now congregating together as they speak frantically between themselves, with the exception of Tantum, who wanders over to give Prompto a comforting pat on the arm.

Sighing, Prompto says, “If only you could.”

“Look, we were ill-prepared when Ardyn cornered us in the facility, but now—”

“I’m only here to see you safely off,” Prompto interjects before she can get ahead of herself. He wishes he could just let her whisk him away to safety, but Ardyn is not a man to be trifled with. 

“Yeah, right,” Tantum snorts derisively. “I bet he only sent you here just to quash your hopes.”

“Maybe,” Prompto mumbles because, yeah, that would be pretty much par for the course.

“Come on,” Aranea says as she throws an arm around his shoulders and guides him up the ramp into her airship, which is considerably warm, even with the back door wide open. “Just have a seat and think about this for a minute, okay?”

There really is nothing _to_ think about, but Prompto is so exhausted that he sits himself down on a small crate in the corner of the airship’s hangar without question. Tantum leans against the wall beside Prompto, arms crossed, while Aranea begins pacing slowly in front of them.

Obviously not knowing how to continue this difficult conversation, Tantum clears his throat and says, “Now that he’s back, maybe we should tell Ser—”

“ _No_ ,” Aranea snaps irritably, coming to a sudden halt as she shoots her subordinate a meaningful look. “I only just succeeded in pulling that moron’s head out of his ass. He needs to cool off before you tell him anything about this.”

Tantum holds his hands up in mock surrender, letting the discussion go at that. 

Suddenly, Prompto feels bad for coming. Being there is just a reminder of the power Ardyn holds over them, a show of how far he can afford to let Prompto wander before he pulls his leash taut again. 

Prompto should’ve parked his snowmobile in the nearby copse and watched them go from just behind the treeline. This isn’t fair to any of them, least of all Serge, who honestly looked as though he would’ve happily died trying to tear Ardyn’s throat out yesterday. 

Looking up at Tantum, Prompto says, “You should tell your colleagues in the hangar to forget they saw me when I rolled in. I’ll stay in here until everyone leaves, just to make sure Ardyn doesn’t do anything to stop you.” 

“That won’t be much of a wait,” Tantum murmurs, sharing a look with Aranea.

“You’re leaving soon?” Prompto asks, trying not to let the thought of being alone without them again bother him. He glances over at the soldier on the other side of the ship as the man finishes soldering up the panels. “Did you manage to fix your ship?”

“We did,” Aranea replies, “but an old ally will be arriving within the hour to deliver the brunt of my people back to Gralea, where they’re needed to help out with the refugee situation. We rushed the repairs on my airship last night so that a handful of us could stick around to save you.”

To say he’s touched would be an understatement, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s not going anywhere with them.

“Ardyn is coming for me at nightfall,” Prompto says, “and if I’m not here, there will be hell to pay.”

“And what’s he doing until then?” Tantum grumbles, “Sitting pretty in his little MT tower over yonder, watching you skitter around nervously through the security cameras?”

“He’s reading, actually,” Prompto says.

Aranea cocks her head to one side in interest. “Reading what?”

“I don’t know. Important files on...something?” Prompto realizes he should’ve tried to get a better look at them, especially that manual, but he was so desperate to get out of there that it hadn’t occurred to him at the time. 

Something important _does_ occur to him now though…

With dawning horror, Prompto slowly rises to his feet. He suddenly feels very cold inside, fingers numb, heart pounding in his chest. “Oh _shit_ ,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong?” Aranea asks, standing up a little straighter, body tense. 

“I’m not sure,” Prompto groans, feeling like a complete idiot. “It’s just...let me put it this way: _if_ Ardyn was 100% interested in using Zephyr, why wouldn’t he have launched it already?”

Aranea shares a quick look with Tantum before she says, “I don’t know...because he doesn’t know how?”

“I think so, too.” Running a hand through his hair, Prompto takes a moment to consider how bizarre this is all about to sound to her. Probably no crazier than anything else in this world, he figures, so he continues, “I’m pretty sure Ardyn’s been spending most of his time here trying to figure out how to launch it. In fact, this morning he seemed kind of irritated at Besithia, probably because the General didn’t leave Ardyn with clear instructions on how to use Zephyr, either because he didn’t think Ardyn would ever need to know how to launch a weapon of mass destruction or he didn’t trust Ardyn with that kind of power. Possibly both.”

That startles a laugh out of Tantum for some reason, who then squints at Prompto in confusion and says, “Everyone who ever knew Izunia and Besithia would agree that they were _pretty_ close.”

“And yet Ardyn let me wreak havoc in Besithia’s facility and kill the General the last time I was here,” Prompto replies. “They clearly disagreed on a least a few things.”

“But do you really think Ardyn intends to use the missile?” Aranea asks.

As much as he wished otherwise, he does. “Yeah,” he says. “He keeps talking about how the gods favored his brother over him for killing people en masse. I think Ardyn plans to do the same here just to stick it to them.”

“But if he’s having a hard time figuring out how to use the missile, that gives us time to figure out who he’s targeting and how to stop him.”

“I think I already know who he’s going to target, and we unfortunately don’t have much time at all to stop him.”

“How do you know who he’s going to target?” Tantum asks.

“Because he’s the King of Lucis,” Prompto says bitterly. He’s never going to feel comfortable calling Ardyn that, but it is what it is, he supposes. “He wants his ten years on the throne, so he’s not going to annihilate his own country. He’s going to obliterate the enemy of Lucis instead. He even said so himself yesterday, that the only ‘good’ Nif is a ‘dead’ Nif…”

Prompto’s never seen the color drain from someone’s face as quickly as it does Aranea’s. She shares another pointed look with Tantum before she quietly says, “Just about everyone in Niflheim is in Gralea right now, conveniently packaged in one place...How long do you think we have before Ardyn hits the kill switch?”

“We’re leaving for Insomnia tonight,” Prompto says, “I don’t know if or when he’ll want to come back here again, so the earliest he might try is today. That’s probably the real reason he sent me off this morning, so that he can get his work done in peace.”

Aranea says some rather colorful things right then, turning around sharply to kick a small toolbox halfway across the hangar of her airship. Then she turns sharply toward Tantum and points toward the outpost. “Get me Wedge. We need a game plan _now_.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tantum salutes before booking it down the ramp and into the cold.

As soon as he’s gone, Aranea closes her eyes and hangs her head slightly forward, hands braced against her hips for support. She looks more than a little pained by this revelation, and Prompto can’t blame her. Just about everyone in her home country is about to bite the dust, betrayed by a man who had paraded around as one of Niflheim’s greatest allies for so many years.

It feels wrong somehow to stare at her while she obviously feels at her weakest, so Prompto glaces off to his side, out into the cold at the snowy stretch of land between the ship and the outpost. It’s finally bright enough outside that staring at the snow kind of stings, so he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking at when he catches a flutter of movement in the corner of his eye. He then glances over at what appears to be a small white butterfly sitting on the edge of the ramp, near to where it folds up into the ship.

Prompto blinks at it for a moment, kind of dumbfounded, because he had no idea insects could function in this low of a temperature, let alone survive outside in this frozen climate for any stretch of time.

At the sight of the butterfly, his immediate thought is to draw Aranea’s attention to it, just to give her something else to focus on for a second, but the words die in his throat as soon as he opens his mouth. Watching as the butterfly gently folds and unfolds its semi-translucent wings, some long lost memory is jogged loose at the back of his mind. Little bits and pieces of information follow shortly after it, bringing with them a name.

“Metelyk…” Prompto breathes, suddenly seized with an unknown emotion. He thinks it might be a little like urgency or excitement.

“What?” Aranea asks, lifting her head and opening her eyes.

Prompto takes a step forward and gently grabs her by either shoulder, finally feeling as though he isn’t entirely helpless anymore.

“I might have a plan,” he says.

~***~

And what he needs to do to carry out his plan is very simple. 

In fact, only after thirty minutes of hashing out the finer details of said plan, he and Aranea hop onto his snowmobile and make their way down the mountainside toward the conspicuous little maintenance shed they infiltrated the other day. Wedge informs them that he had purposefully broken the locks on all the doors on his way out in case they needed to get back in there in a pinch, so it takes the two of them no time at all to make their way underground and along the passageway to the missile’s control room again. It’s only then that everything takes a bit of a turn for the worse.

Because Ardyn is already there.

He’s standing at the computer console Wedge was working on earlier, the Captain’s equipment still hooked up the machine. Ardyn has cracked open the manual that he was looking over this morning beside the keyboard and is typing something into the program that’s opened on the screen before him. In the room beyond him, where Zephyr still stands in its hangar, there’s a soft rushing noise.

Prompto wonders how close Ardyn is to launching that monstrosity.

Having heard their arrival. Ardyn finishes what he was typing and turns around, offering them a thin smile, like he doesn’t know whether he should be annoyed or amused by their sudden appearance. Eventually, he settles on looking eerily pleased and focuses his attention on Prompto. “Did you miss me already?” he asks. 

Prompto and Aranea exchange a quick look, a question of whether or not they think they can really pull this off.

Then, taking a cautious step forward, Aranea says, “We just want to talk.”

“The both of you?” Ardyn asks, feigning surprise, “Because _this one_ —” he eyes Prompto up again “—is not much of a conversationalist. He hardly speaks, even in the throes of passion.”

“Then I don’t mind doing all the talking.” Aranea holds her hands up briefly, trying to indicate that she genuinely isn’t there for a fight. “You and I worked closely together for quite some time, Chancellor. Could you just hear me out, for old times’ sake?”

Ardyn cocks an eyebrow at her in mild disbelief, then glances over his shoulder at the computer for what feels like ages, contemplating her request. Prompto can feel the sweat beading under the collar of his coat as they wait for Ardyn to come to a decision, Aranea standing stock-still beside him, like she’s worried that if she moves, he’ll deny her out of spite.

Finally, Ardyn glances back at them again and takes a step forward. There’s still quite some distance between them, but Prompto knows Ardyn can clear that space before anyone can blink.

“You have five minutes,” Ardyn replies, “and you had better choose your words carefully, Commodore, because if I feel as though you’re wasting my time, I’ll snap your neck and have Mr. Argentum here drag your cooling corpse back to your ship on foot.”

As horrifying as that would be, Prompto tries to remind himself that this is good, that there’s no reason to panic, because the fact that Ardyn is willing to talk is like some kind of miracle from the great beyond. It bodes well, he hopes, for what they’re trying to accomplish here because they really can’t afford for anything to go wrong.

Of course, the universe works in mysterious ways, sometimes quietly and sometimes violently, such as it does now, when the door to the passageway slams open against the wall behind them, loud enough that it gives both Prompto and Aranea a start. 

The two of them share yet another look before glancing over their shoulders at their newest arrival—which turns out to be none other than Cpl. Serge, looking a little flush in the face as he stares across the room at Ardyn.

“Serge—” Prompto tries to say, but his own voice cuts out on him. He’s so high off of adrenaline right now, he feels like the room is spinning.

Serge spares Prompto a glance at the sound of his name, his expression momentarily softened by a deep sense of grief, before he fixes his stare on Ardyn again. Then something dark passes over his eyes, a cold and impenetrable veil, as if he’s already made up his mind about what needs to be done here.

“...I suppose this means you will need to make two trips up the mountainside, my dear,” Ardyn quips. 

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Serge seems like a bit of an idiot, but I promise, you'll get to find out just what the frack is wrong with him in the next chapter...


	13. The death of a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wholly did _not_ intend to take a whole month to update this story. This chapter just happened to be incredibly long, so it took me a while to hammer it out. I had considered breaking it up into two chapters, but I really didn't like the idea of spending more than one outside of Prompto's perspective. Even so, I think it's important to get an outsider's view of Prompto and Ardyn, as well as more of an idea of what sort of people Aranea has in her crew since they will be making appearances throughout the series, which is really why this chapter needed to be as long as it was. 
> 
> Anyway...please don't hate me for chucking this monstrosity at you (although there's a TL:DR that you can read at the end if you're tempted to).
> 
> PS: Oh, before I forget --- this chapter includes the story behind the 'burning man,' so consider yourselves forewarned...
> 
>  **Edit:** Someone kindly pointed out that I accidentally referred to Erro as 'Ausgutus' several times. That was a mistake. His first name is Aurelius, and I've gone through the chapter and changed that now.

~***~

Augustus Serge could still recall with perfect clarity the night he lit the fire that changed his life forever.

Just three days prior to that had been one of the worst moments of his life.

“The funeral is scheduled for Friday evening,” Captain Vance informed him as she tapped the excess ash off the end of her cigarette. They stood together on the palace’s eastern flanking tower, staring out from the balcony at the grey city landscape as the sun rose behind a veil of clouds. In the distance, Zegnautus loomed over the far side of Gralea like a bad omen. “Or whatever they call a funeral when you don’t necessarily have a body to bury. They’re going to be cremating him the day before the ceremony, I hear.”

Serge opened his mouth to speak and then slowly closed it again. When he heard that she had been looking for him out of the blue, he’d been expecting either a reprimand for something he didn’t recall doing or the news of some kind of family emergency.

This was somehow infinitely worse.

Which was probably why she asked to meet with him somewhere secluded instead of her office, to give him a chance to process the information before the news broke to everyone else. Cpl. Aurelius Erro had been so ridiculously congenial that Serge couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t be upset at his sudden passing or wouldn’t try to press Serge for more information. In fact, Erro had been so charismatic that he was possibly one of the few people who managed to talk his way into the military without the help of familial times at a time when human soldiers were being replaced en masse by Besithia’s magitek monstrosities, which is how just about anyone else at the palace got their job nowadays. Everyone loved him.

“You can’t be serious,” Serge breathed, bracing his hands against the balcony railing for support. He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. 

This had to be a joke.

“I know the two of you were pretty close,” his aunt sighed, reaching into her trouser pocket for a pack of cigarettes. She held them out to him. “You look like you could use a few.”

Serge’s father had been trying to get him to kick the habit for years. He would be pretty pissed off if he discovered one of his own sisters was sabotaging Serge’s progress, but he needed a nicotine hit so badly right then that he was practically shaking as he pulled a couple of cigarettes out of the proffered pack. He shoved all but one of them in his coat pocket and then quickly lit the last one with his dwindling packet of matches before taking a deep breath. 

Dimly, he realized Erro would be pretty pissed at him, too, for falling back on old habits.

Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he pursed his lips and exhaled slowly, watching as the puff of smoke curled up into the sky. It was another overcast day in Gralea, smelling strongly of rain but promising nothing of the sort. Gralea was still on record for being one of the driest cities on Eos for the past twenty years running now.

“What happened to him?” he finally asked, wondering where it had all gone wrong. He had spoken to Erro in the flesh the other day. In fact, he had been the _last_ person to speak with Erro at the palace, if he wasn’t mistaken. Granted, Erro hadn’t been in the best of health lately, but he was standing pretty firmly on both feet at the time, happy to finally head home to marry the woman of his dreams.

The Captain took another pull from her own cigarette and shrugged. “All I’ve been told is that there was an accident. Maybe on the road? I think that’s why they don’t want to have an open-casket ceremony.”

Even if Erro had been mangled beyond recognition, the fact that he was being cremated struck Serge as a little odd. Like most lower and middle class folk in Niflheim, Erro and his family were fairly religious, believing that their bodies were merely on loan from some greater entity. Serge didn’t know what to believe himself, but he knew Erro would’ve made it clear when he signed up for the military that he wanted whatever was left of his body to be buried in the ground if he should meet an untimely demise..

“Who told you?” Serge asked.

Captain Vance squinted into the distance, like maybe something about all of this didn’t sit too well with her either. “General Canidius sent me a memo earlier this morning. I’m sure he forwarded it to your Captain as well, seeing as Erro was one of your people, but I thought you would like a moment alone to come to terms with what’s happened before everyone hounds you for answers.”

This was going to be the tragedy of the year, that’s for sure, although why General Canidius was the one dispensing this information was more than a little baffling. While Canidius’ nephew had been working at the palace for quite some time now, Serge couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the General in Gralae. Canidius’ preferred haunt was Tenebrae, where he could sample their world famous wines daily and annoy Commander Nox Fleuret to his heart’s content. 

Serge didn’t know why he was fixating on the unimportant details of this news. His best mate just died. Maybe he was in shock? He had a hard time believing any of this was real.

“Are you going to be sick?” the Captain asked him, like Serge was a scrawny fourteen-year-old again and drunk for the very first time in his life.

 _‘No,’_ he thought, but then something flipped over in his stomach and he nodded instead. “Yes.”

Thankfully, he hadn’t eaten anything yet that morning. Dry-heaving over the tower balcony was preferable to splattering it with actual vomit, which someone might order him to clean up if they found out he was the culprit.

The Captain gave him a comforting pat on the back when his stomach finally decided it was finished doing forward tumbles under his diaphragm. “I’m going to tell Helena about what’s happened,” she said. “She’s pretty good at tracking down information. Maybe we can figure out what really killed your friend last night.”

Helena, otherwise known as Sgt. Vance, was her niece and his cousin and was possibly one of the best people Serge had ever known to subtly squeeze people for intel. If she had had the stomach for it, he’s sure she would’ve made one hell of an interrogator. 

With one last pat to the back, the Captain retreated back inside to start her work for the day, leaving him in something of a trance as he stared at the grimmy world spread out before him and wondered why the gods hated all the little people of the Eos. 

And in particular, why Erro, he wondered, who had never been anything but kind to everyone?

Why _Erro_ , who had been nothing less than faithful to Astrals?

He died only for their cruel amusement, Serge supposed, as he finally flicked his cigarette over the balcony railing and straightened out his uniform, feeling bitter now on top of his utter devastation.

Then he switched his brain to automatic and marched back into the palace like the good little soldier he had always been taught to be.

~***~

Standing for hours on end without moving is a unique kind of torture when you’re grieving.

Serge wished he hadn’t been one of the soldiers stationed right outside the throne room that day, where he was pretty much expected to pretend he was as dead inside as his magitek counterparts, but at least here no one could immediately bother him with questions or condolences. More than a few people had already asked him what happened on his way over to his post, a vital question that he didn’t have an answer to yet. In fact, part of him was still hoping this was all just a bad dream, the sort he’d eventually wake from and have a good laugh over with Erro in the morning.

As the hours crawled on, a knot formed in his stomach. It first folded one way and then twisted the other, tightening to a point of near-nausea again as yet another political dignity walked briskly past him. Aldercapt was receiving visitors here today instead of up in Zegnautus Keep, which meant Serge likely wouldn’t have a moment to step aside and have a quick breather unseen during his shift. It also meant that he had to stand there and somehow ignore his least favorite governmental official when the man wandered by, that being the infamous Chancellor Ardyn Izunia of Niflheim.

Most days, Serge tried to pay the other man little mind. As a literal nobody, Serge was someone who really didn’t draw the attention of the Chancellor on a regular basis anyway, so that worked out for him. Izunia generally only focused on the people that he was trying to screw over for the Emperor’s benefit or annoy for his own sick amusement. Serge had seen him put people through some rather elaborate mental gymnastics before they entered the throne room, softening them up so that Aldercapt had an easier time wearing them down. Usually, these were the folk from Tenebrae, which annoyed Serge to no end, because their lives had already been hard enough since their country had been annexed by Niflheim. 

Sure enough, Ardyn wandered down the corridor sometime during the last hour of Serge’s shift, speaking with an older gentleman in the low, furtive tones he usually favored when he was trying to inject a false sense of urgency into the situation. And he was succeeding, judging by his companion’s strained expression. The gentleman, who was wearing the customary robes of a Tenebrae official, was absentmindedly wringing his hands together, as if he was too nervous to proceed.

“—but I assure you,” Ardyn said, returning to his normal volume as they approached the grand doors at the end of the corridor, “I will speak with him on the matter in greater detail tonight. There is no reason, I think, why you shouldn’t leave here satisfied tomorrow evening.”

The older gentleman nodded, shared a weak smile with him, and then proceeded timidly into the throne room alone, like a wounded animal ushered into the den of a starving a coeurl.

Ardyn, of course, did not join him. His work on that front was concluded the moment the doors closed behind the dignitary. He turned away and smiled in satisfaction as he made his way back down the corridor, humming some old nursery ditty under his breath as he went.

Serge was happy to see him go—although that whimsical thought came a little too soon, evidently jinxing himself as Ardyn then came to an abrupt halt. The man pivoted slowly toward the row of soldiers that Serge stood with along the eastern wall of the corridor, hands on his hips as he approached Cpl. Tantum, who was just on Serge’s right. Tall as he was, Ardyn had to duck his head slightly to peek through the visor of Tantum’s armor, squinting as he carried out his bizarre analysis. Then he straightened again and chuckled to himself.

“My apologies,” Ardyn said, “I couldn’t remember if Besithia’s magitek were stationed here today. You and your colleagues do such an admirable job of mimicking their…‘ _uninhabited_ ’ nature.”

Serge had no idea what he meant by that. He figured Ardyn was trying to call them ‘mindless’ without being too obvious about it because the man enjoyed throwing out insults disguised as compliments or offhand remarks a little too much. And poor Tantum, of course, had to stand there with his mouth shut, because unless Ardyn ordered him to do something or asked a question of him, they were, for all intents and purposes, supposed to pretend that they were as ‘uninhabited’ as the magitek stationed here.

“I wanted to offer you and your comrades my condolences,” Ardyn continued. “I was only just informed of Cpl. Erro’s passing this afternoon. I know he was much loved by many of you. Such a tragedy....”

Serge’s stomach started roiling again. He didn’t know how to handle grief in a healthy manner, thanks in part to the tough-as-nails attitude favored by his family. You weren’t supposed to share your weaker moments with anyone, and if you did, it was for the best if everyone ignored you. This was because it was assumed that bad thoughts couldn’t fester if you didn’t give them fodder, a motto that he had long since learned was pretty much spiracorn shit by now. 

He wished to any god that was listening that this would be the extent to which Ardyn decided to bother them for the day, but apparently the man had one last thing to say, and it was this last thing that set in motion a rather spectacular series of unfortunate events. 

“ _Truly,_ ” the Chancellor sighed, feigning sincerity with practiced ease, although Serge had seen him fake it too many times before to really believe him now, “I pray they find the culprit soon.”

Before Serge could register the implication of what Ardyn had just said, the Chancellor continued down the corridor at his usual clipped pace, off to fan the flames of someone else’s inner turmoil. It wasn’t until he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight that Serge began to wonder if the man actually _knew_ that someone was behind Erro’s passing or if he was merely assuming the worst just to torment them.

For some reason, though, Serge couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was involved with Erro’s untimely death.

~***~

Helena, unfortunately, only managed to make a greater mystery of the whole affair when she slipped into the seat next to him in the mess hall at dinnertime. She looked utterly exhausted as she sat there and watched him push the lump of mushy potatoes around his plate. He therefore felt a little guilty when he gently cleared his throat and quietly asked, “What have you got for me?”

“Hm?” She replied, staring at him in confusion for the moment or so it took her to remember why she was there. “ Oh, well...for a couple of minutes after 17:00, there was a rumor going around that you killed Erro.”

In all his life, Serge has never before stared at someone with his mouth literally hanging open like a complete idiot, but he supposed there was a first time for everything, because what the actual _fuc_ —

“It’s only because everyone thought you were the last person to see him alive,” she elaborated, snatching the stale roll off the corner of his meal tray. “And because the Chancellor planted the idea that someone around here was responsible for his death.”

Serge grabbed the knife and packet of fake butter beside his plate and handed them over to her. His stomach wasn’t going to settle anytime soon, so one of them might as well enjoy his dinner. “Then why don’t I have an angry mob tearing me limb from limb right now?”

“Like I said, it was only for a couple of minutes. After talking to a few people, I found out that Erro was supposed to stick around the palace until 21:00 last night for some kind of meeting, which would’ve been long after he spoke to you.” She paused for a moment to cut open the roll and began lathering it up with butter. Then she gave him a pointed look. “Before I go any further, can you tell me what he said? I’ve got more information for you, but it’s a little confusing.”

Sitting back in his seat, Serge glanced around the room, wondering how many people at the adjacent tables were trying to listen in on their conversation. He could see Cpl. Tarus, a surprisingly soft-spoken hulk of a man, staring at Serge from across the mess hall, although he quickly averted his gaze when he realized Serge had noticed him.

“Well…” What was he supposed to say, really? His last conversation with Erro had been fairly short. Even so, Serge had been playing it over and over again inside his head for the better part of the day. “He...started off by apologizing for not telling anyone that he had been honorably discharged until today.”

“Yeah, that was kind of a shock,” Helena mumbled before taking a bite of her roll. She chewed for a bit and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “But he hadn’t been looking too good this past month. Did he say if he was leaving because he was sick or something?”

Serge shook his head. “He said his fiancée finally got that promotion she wanted. She wasn’t going to be stuck traveling anymore and asked him if he’d like to move back to their hometown up in the mountains. Then we talked a little bit about the wedding.” For a split second, Serge allowed himself a small smile. “He asked me if I wanted to be his best man.”

It was a nice memory, but it was still marred by the weary look in Erro’s eyes, like he was exhausted in a way that went beyond words. Then he told Serge about this bizarre meeting he had to attend before he could officially leave and asked Serge if he would stick around afterwards so they could grab one last drink together, for old times’ sake.

It was this one particular moment that had been haunting Serge since he received the news of Erro’s death that morning. Looking back on it, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was as close to a plea for help that Erro could bring himself to make. Serge would like to pretend that he hadn’t seen that hint of desperation in Erro’s eyes, the sort of thing Serge had been taught from a young age to purposefully ignore by most of the men in his life, because it utterly crushed him now to remember how his friend’s gaze had momentarily dropped when he instead proposed that Erro join everyone for a beer when the night shift was over. It felt like a door had been closed and the key quietly turned in its lock as Erro shook his head and quietly said that he would see Serge again sometime in the next couple of weeks to chat a little more about the wedding.

Not for the first time that day, Serged wished to every god in the universe that he had stayed by Erro’s side that night.

“I have a hard time imagining you in a tux,” Helena quipped, trying to preserve the happiness of the moment. She didn’t know it had already died for Serge. 

“Erro didn’t know what the meeting was for,” Serge continued, hoping to get back to what she had discovered. “Apparently, the paperwork for his discharge was already signed and filed. He’d also had his exit interview, or whatever it’s called, with Captain Matia in the afternoon. I don’t think he mentioned who it was that wanted to speak with him in the evening..”

“I know who it was,” Helena replied, picking up her borrowed knife to thin the butter on her roll a little more. “Chancellor Ardyn Izunia and Commodore Aranea Highwind.”

It took Serge far too long to process what Helena had just said to him. Even when it finally registered for him, he couldn’t help but blink at her in disbelief. “I’m sorry— _who_?”

Helena quirked an eyebrow at him in silent agreement. No doubt, she also found this more than a little odd. “One of the Commodore’s men apparently came by the barracks in the evening to escort Erro to the Chancellor’s office. They spoke for all of fifteen minutes before Erro returned to the barracks to grab the last of his things, and then he headed out the main gate to hail a taxi.”

“That’s a fine bit of sleuthing,” Serge replied, marveling at what she was able to accomplish in so little time. He wouldn’t even know who to squeeze for that sort of information. “Do you think maybe ‘ _he_ ’ did it...?”

“Who?” Helena gave him an incredulous look. “ _Izunia_? Why on Eos would he want Erro dead?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a sociopath.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure Commodore Highwind isn’t.” Taking a quick glance around the room as she tried to gauge who may or may not be eavesdropping on them right then, Helena leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice. “The Commodore runs all those secret missions over in Lucis, you know.” 

He did know. Everyone knew, actually, because Aranea Highwind was one of those rare birds who’d managed to make a solid name for herself at a young age as one of the best mercs on the continent. The military only succeeded in recruiting her a few years ago, leaving most of the messy work abroad in her capable hands. It wasn’t often that she was in the city, but when she was, it was usually to recruit someone for her every-dwindling team.

While Erro was an incredibly capable and almost supernaturally charismatic soldier, he was short and scrawny enough that most people still confused him for a highschool student half the time. Also, Serge was pretty damn certain the kid had never once killed anyone during his military service. He was too religious. In fact, he readily confessed on day one that he only wanted to become a soldier to get his foot in the door for the supposed space program General Besithia was working on. Erro didn’t really care so much about conquering Eos as he did all the other stars in the galaxy.

“You think the Commodore was trying to recruit him?” Serge asked, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice. “For what? Some kind of secret mission?”

“Erro always seemed to know just what to say,” Helena replied, “and he was smart enough that I’m sure he would’ve made a damn good spy. That kid knew how to read a room better than anyone.”

It took Serge a moment to contemplate what she was implying here. He could feel a twinge of hope inside his chest, but he refused to let it blossom, not until he had something more concrete to work with.

“If I’m understanding you correctly, you think Erro’s death was possibly faked so that he could disappear off to Lucis for however many years we have left in this war?” he asked. 

“Why would they be ‘cremating’ him if not to hide the fact that they don’t have a body to bury on Friday? Erro was pretty religious. He would’ve asked them to ship his body home.”

Shifting in his seat, Serge shook his head. “How can we possibly determine if that’s true or not?”

“We find the body—or the place it’s supposed to be, assuming there’s even a body to begin with.”

“And how do we do that?”

Helena winked at him, which meant she already had this all planned out. Which really shouldn’t have surprised him. Very rarely did she say or do anything before she had all her ducks in a row. 

Straightening in her seat, Helena glanced over toward the far corner of the room where Serge realized Tarus was still staring at him. As if on cue, the other man rose from his seat to join their table. 

Tarus slid smoothly onto the bench across from them and folded his hands neatly together before he said, “I was able to find out where they’re supposed to be keeping Erro.”

Honestly, Serge had always wondered where they put a person’s body if they died on the job at the palace. In the field, they either buried the body promptly in a mass grave or left them where they fell, depending on how heavy the enemy fire was. In Gralea, where your chances of getting shot at by a Lucian soldier were next to nil, Serge didn’t think the military had a designated morgue. It certainly wasn’t anywhere inside the palace, that’s for sure.

Serge stared at the other man in confusion. “How on Eos did you figure that out?”

“I asked around nicely,” Tarus replied, reaching into his breast pocket for a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out, skimmed it quickly, and said, “I’m going to check the place out tonight, but I need to get the bribe for the mortician in order. How much were you able to get?”

Helena didn’t miss a beat. She reached into her uniform coat and produced a white unlabelled envelope that she slid across the table to Tarus—in full view of everyone, which likely meant that there probably wasn’t anyone nearby who hadn’t contributed to the pool. The thickness of the envelope could also attest to that. Tarus probably had enough gil in there to bribe more than just a mortician, but seeing that Gralea was one of the most corrupt cities in the country, who knew what the going rate was for bribes nowadays?

“I didn’t know you were looking for donations,” Serge mumbled, feeling awful that he hadn’t somehow contributed yet. He always knew that Erro was the walking definition of a social butterfly, so of course there would be plenty of people willing to offer up a few gil for his sake. It was just odd having known him the best, yet managing to provide the least.

“I was able to collect enough before you finished your shift,” Helena explained.

Tarus opened the flap of the envelope and quickly thumbed through the gil, counting it under his breath. “...This should do it,” he said finally before tucking the envelope into his coat. “Did either one of you want to come with me tonight?”

Helena shook her head. “My shift is starting in an hour.”

“I’ll come,” Serge said quickly.

“Then I’ll swing by your bunk before I head out,” Tarus replied, nodding at them both in farewell before he wandered off to rejoin his previous table.

“I should probably grab myself a proper meal,” Helena said as she slowly rose to her feet, taking her stolen roll with her. “I’ll be back in five. Save my seat for me, won’t you?”

“Okay,” he mumbled, just as he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. 

Filing into the mess hall from the far end of the room and now making a beeline for their table were Corporeals Tantum, Wenthworth, Sykes, and Romano. While none of them looked particularly happy, Tantum seemed more pissed than anything. The other man tore off his uniform cap and tossed it onto the table before dropping into the vacant spot Tarus had left behind. Scowling, he then said, “The Astrals have a cruel sense of humor, you know?”

“Tell me about it,” Serge sighed as he resumed pushing the food around his plate with his fork. He had no idea why he didn’t just offer the whole tray to Helena before she left. There was no way he’d be able to stomach anything for the next long while.

“You know Captain Canidius?” Tantum asked, setting the stage for what promised to be another uncomfortable conversation.

To answer Tantum’s question: yes, off course, Serge knew Captain Canidius. _Everyone_ knew Canidius. Like the vast majority of people in Niflheim who lived by the unspoken rule that _your_ profession would be the same as your parents, Canidius only became a soldier to follow in his family’s footsteps. Both of his parents had been high-ranking and rather ruthless officers in the military who were now retired, although his uncle, the sneaky little lush in Tenebrae, was still making a nuisance of himself. However, to all outside appearances, Captain Canidius was nothing like his relatives. He was a tall and muscular fellow who was charming in a way that quite often had the newest recruits swooning over him. Which, of course, delighted Canidius to no end, as he had once drunkenly confessed that his only real vice in life was his insatiable appetite for beautiful people with as few clothes on as humanly possible. 

But Serge knew for a fact that this wasn’t completely true.

Serge had been on a rotation with the other man out in the field many years ago. Canidius was quite apt in battle, especially when it came to killing people with his bare hands. In fact, Serge had once seen Canidius pin a Lucian soldier down and straddle his thrashing opponent before curling his hands around the poor man’s throat. Canidius didn’t once look away as he squeezed the life out of him, almost as though he enjoyed watching the light leave his eyes.

So, _no_ , Serge really didn’t believe that Canidius’ only vice was lust. Nor was it his greatest. The man was a monster under all those layers of charm, and only the people who had fought alongside Canidius in battle, such as Tantum or Helena, would understand why Serge preferred to give the man a wide berth. 

Nothing good could come of being too closely acquainted with a man like that.

“Mate,” Serge said, pushing his tray forward so that he could comfortably lean against the table with his elbows, finger stapled together as he braced himself for whatever bizarre direction this conversation was headed, “this is the second time the Canidius family name has come up in conversation today, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

“Odd,” Tantum murmured. “Well, I heard that the Captain is transferring out to Tenebrae. Tomorrow will be his last day at the palace. Normally, I would be elated, but I can’t find it in myself to celebrate so soon after losing Erro.”

On a good day, Serge would be over the fucking moon with this news, but the timing was awfully convenient and the fact that General Canidius had gone around telling everyone that Erro perished in an accident had Serge feeling more than a little suspicious.

Clearing his throat, Serge asked, “Do you know if any of the shops across the street from the palace might have security footage of the main gate?”

His companions looked between each other in confusion before Romano crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and said, “Maybe? Do you want us to go door to door and see if they do?”

“Don’t we need a warrant or some kind of written consent to legally bother people like that?” Sykes asked, pulling off her own uniform cap to twirl it slowly around on her index finger. 

“We’re soldiers living in a dystopian society,” Romano sighed, “Shaking down civilians for information isn’t going to come with serious repercussions in this day and age.”

“Please, don’t hurt anyone over this,” Serge said.

“I won’t. I’m just saying that I’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for—provided, of course, you tell me what it is we’re supposed to be looking for.”

“I want to know if anyone left the palace after Erro last night,” he explained. “Erro had a meeting around 21:00, but it apparently didn’t last very long. He probably left the palace sometime between 21:30 and 22:00.”

“Okay...I’ll round up some volunteers to hit the streets with me early tomorrow morning before the start of my shift. Consider it done.”

“Is this somehow related to Canidius?” Tantum asked, looking as though he was puzzling over why Serge decided to segue into this topic after immediately announcing the Captain’s imminent departure.

“...Possibly,” Serge replied after a moment of hesitation. Considering that he himself had already been under suspicion for his best friend’s murder, he didn’t want to accidentally instigate a witch hunt, even if he didn’t particularly care much for Canidius. “I just think I smell a cover-up. General Canidius doesn’t usually deal with the palace guards.”

“Fair enough.”

Wentworth cleared her throat. “I might…” she began to say before suddenly trailing off.

“What’s up?” Tantum asked as he watched her rise from her seat.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “I’ll be back in a few.”

She offered them a small wave as she left, sparing Serge a glance before turning away, but Serge didn’t have the energy to give her sudden departure much thought. He was too busy thinking about Izunia, Highwind, and the Captain, a confounding trio if ever there was one. 

After a moment of contemplation, he decided to take Wentworth’s lead as he pushed his tray across the table to Tantum and said, “Have it. I’ve lost my appetite .”

“How wonderful,” Tantum muttered, eyeing the plate. “Mushy potatoes. Again. I wonder if red meat will ever return to the menu.”

As everyone at the table began complaining about the long string of horrible food they’d been forced to endure over the last month, Serge took this opportunity to slip away. He retreated to the barracks, even though sunset wasn’t for another hour, and kicked off his boots so that he could climb onto the top cot of the bunk he once shared with Erro. 

As the light outside dwindled and the day drew to an end, he closed his eyes and tried to pretend that the cot beneath him wasn’t vacant, its starched white sheets and wool blanket folded neatly together at the foot of the bed. And when his companions returned later that evening, huddling together a few bunks over for a game of cards, he pretended Erro’s voice was one of those among their soft murmurs, perhaps sharing the story of how everyone mistakenly came to believe he had died that morning.

Because it couldn’t be true.

It just couldn’t.

~***~

Despite his best efforts, sleep evaded him.

He hadn’t lost someone this close to him in a very long time.

As a boy, he had grown up in a fishing village on the far eastern coast. Practically everyone on his mother’s side of the family was a fisherman, which was honestly the same career he thought he would pursue when he was older. However, enough of his relatives had been claimed by the tumultuous sea over the years that his mother was leery of letting him so much as look at a boat when his uncles offered to teach him how to sail. The prospect of him becoming a soldier like his father didn’t sit too well with her either, but a soldier made far more gil than anyone in a failing fishing village, and since your odds of survival were better when you could afford to feed yourself, she relented when Serge’s father asked that they move to Gralea so that he could further his own career.

They moved when Serge was ten, and he hadn’t seen much of his mother’s side of the family since then. They received a letter every once in a while during the holidays, and his mother travelled back to her village for the occasional funeral, but Serge was never invited along on her trips. First of all, the journey wasn’t cheap. Second, Serge’s father had opinions about the whole grieving process. He firmly believed that if you were hurt, you had better well do your damn best to hide it, lest anyone make it worse. Those were the exact words he shared with Serge the day he learned his grandmother had died, accompanied by a solid thump on the back, the sort that his father usually gave him whenever he wanted Serge to _‘walk it off,’_ so to speak. 

Having said that, this did not mean that his father was a particularly angry or violent man, but he prescribed to the notion that it was never wise to share your feelings with anyone, at least not in a way that would make you appear weak. Therefore, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Serge wound up becoming something of a stick in the mud like his old man by the time he enlisted. He had lightened up over the years, of course, but any change in his attitude was the byproduct of socializing with the type of people he had encountered over the years in the military, chief among them being Aurelius Erro, who had walked into everyone’s lives with a impish smile on his lips and a joke in his heart and the ever present need to ‘share the love’.

Serge could still clearly remember the moment he was introduced to Erro. He had only just returned to the barracks from an early morning run, drenched in sweat and eager for a quick rinse before he began his shift, only to find Wentworth and a few others huddled around their newest recruit as they asked his opinion on many of the officers he had already met that day. From the onset, Erro seemed to have a talent for taking the measure of a man at a glance and already seemed to know who he should avoid and who he should cultivate a decent working relationship with. It was therefore only natural that Wentworth would nod her head at Serge as he approached his bunk and asked, _“What about this one then?”_

Erro eyed him up, squinted momentarily in concentration, then nodded his head and said quite matter of factly, _“A fine soldier, to be certain, but still someone who’s in desperate need of a hug.”_

The absurdity of this comment startled a laugh out of everyone, Serge included, who actually thought that, yes, perhaps he _did_ need a hug. It was only natural then that he would retaliate by enveloping Erro’s smaller frame with his sweaty arms and wait for the recruit's inevitable flailing as he struggled to free himself.

Only, Erro didn’t try to free himself.

Instead, he gently wrapped his arms around Serge in return, sighed in what sounded like content, and asked, _“Does this mean we can be bunkmates?”_

Which was as wonderful as the beginning to any beautiful relationship, one that Serge couldn’t stop thinking about as he lay awake in his cot. Erro’s bright burst of emotion had been the perfect complement to Serge’s generally stern demeanour. He was just so open and honest about everything. Serge had often wished that he could be just like him.

That all changed, of course, about a month ago. Erro had disappeared for an evening and crept back into the barracks sometime around 2:00 in the morning. He didn’t laugh or joke around as much anymore since then. In fact, he barely spoke more than two words at a time. And he had been losing sleep, tossing and turning much in the same way Serge was now, up until the day he apparently decided to throw in the towel and head home to his little village in the mountains, retired from the military at the ripe old age of twenty.

Exhausted, Serge sat up and slipped off the side of his bed, landing on his feet with a quiet thump. Then he crept onto Erro’s old cot and laid back down again, staring up at the same wooden bed boards that Erro had stared at over the many nights that he had worked in the palace. He used to keep cutouts of the stars from some science magazine that he then taped to the underside of Serge’s cot, shots from a telescope owned by the Royal Academy of Gralea. Apparently, he had heard about the space program that the Empire wanted to invest in when his fiancée interviewed someone from the physics department over there. He had grown up in the same mountain village that General Besithia had been born in, where his parents had raised livestock until the Empire’s battle with the Glacian ended in a perpetual winter. Now that their livelihood had been ruined, there was nothing to keep Erro in his village once he was old enough to make his own way in life, and so he travelled to Gralea, which wasn’t the brightest star on anyone’s horizon, really, but which was one of the few cities in Niflheim that was still enlisting human beings for the military.

Reaching up, Serge ran his finger across a stray piece of tape Erro forgot to remove in his haste to pack the other day. How many nights had Erro lain there and stared up at those cutout stars, mind occupied by whatever nightmare was plaguing him instead of his beautiful dream of soaring high above Eos? What had he been so scared of? Why didn’t he tell anyone?

More importantly, why hadn’t Serge _asked_?

Serge tried to take a deep breath. There was an invisible weight sitting on his chest, one that unexpectedly squeezed the air out of his lungs with the softest sound of agony on the next exhalation. He tried to muffle it with his hand, hoping he hadn’t woken anyone. He didn’t know how to describe how he was feeling. Was he in pain? He was afraid, certainly, although of what he couldn’t say.

As he slowly lowered his hand again, he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Tarus had somehow managed to slip into the room without making a sound, dressed in his dark military fatigues and looking very much like a man on a mission. He stopped beside Serge’s bunk and didn’t say a word as Serge sat up to slip on his boots. Then together they retreated out into the courtyard.

Under the cover of night, they made their way toward a car parked not too far from the main gate. Technically, they weren’t allowed to leave the premises after hours without permission, but he presumed that Tarus had already had a quiet word with whoever was on duty at the gate—possibly accompanied by a portion of the bribe money that Vance had pulled together for tonight’s adventure. This was more or less confirmed after they climbed into the vehicle and Tarus started the engine, waiting until 1:18 precisely before he drove seamlessly out onto the public road running in front of the palace grounds. None of the guards posted at the gate spared them so much as a glance, and they were likely to repeat this performance once Tarus and Serge returned.

Much to Serge’s surprise, it didn’t take long for them to reach their destination. He initially thought that they might be heading toward the hospital annexed to the Royal Academy, which is where most palace staff were taken in an emergency, but Tarus instead only drove a few blocks south before pulling into the parking lot of an old mortuary. Being that it was well after curfew, the streets were void of life as they exited the car, although there were a few vehicles parked on the lot close to the front door and the lights were on in the windows. 

Leading the way, Tarus marched up to the front desk where an older gentleman in a white lab coat was sitting, enjoying a cup of coffee. He looked dead tired, his grey hair greased back by too much pomade and his fingers yellowed from what was likely a lifelong smoking habit. The man barely said, “Can I help you?” before Tarus produced a small envelope and pushed it across the counter to the mortician.

The man grabbed the envelope without hesitation and opened it to count out another portion of Vance’s bribery fund. Then he tucked the envelope into his coat pocket and rose to his feet, gesturing Tarus and Serge to follow him down the hall adjacent to the desk. “The medical examiner is done with him, so we don’t have to worry about any interruptions,” he said.

The weight that had been pressing down on Serge’s chest that evening migrated into his stomach. His hands felt wet and clammy.

He hoped to every god in Eos that this cadaver was somebody else, just a case of mistaken identity.

After what felt like a small eternity, they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hall. They led to a large, cold room that housed three examination tables and a wall of small, square doors, behind which Serge imagined they stored the bodies. Two of the tables were bare; a small body was lying on the third one to the left, covered entirely by a white cloth.

Under the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights, the world took on an unrealistic quality as the mortician grabbed the top of the sheet and folded it down to reveal the face beneath. Tarus didn’t say anything or move beyond tilting his head slightly back, the only sign that he was likewise surprised by this great reveal. Serge, on the other hand, took a step closer, eyes glued to the unfortunate soul spread out on the table.

Initially, Erro didn’t look like much of himself. His skin, once rosy and warm and dusted with the faintest of freckles, was uncharacteristically pale. His lips were blue. His golden hair had lost its lustre. He must have been so cold and uncomfortable lying there on that metal slab, Serge thought, clothed as he was in nothing more than a flimsy sheet... 

Then Serge abruptly remembered that Erro was dead and that the cold couldn’t rob him of his warmth if he had nothing left of it to give.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Serge’s focus narrowed down to the ugly bruise on the left side of Erro’s face, a beast of a thing that spread out from his temple and over his eye. It likely came from the kind of hit that would knock just about anyone to the ground, which was probably why there were bits of dirt and gravel in Erro’s hair. This was accompanied by an angry ring of bruises around Erro’s neck, with two particular lumps looking as though they belonged to someone’s thumbs.

The room began to spin. Serge leaned forward against the table, his right hand brushing against Erro’s under the sheet. The mortician said nothing as Serge then folded it back to look down at Erro’s hand, so small and pale and stiff as Serge gently curled his fingers around it. Erro’s knuckles were abraded and there was something that looked like dried blood under his nails. 

Serge knew what this looked like—knew what this _was,_ but he still couldn’t believe it. Everyone loved Erro. The boy had wronged no one.

 _No one_.

Dazed, Serge cleared his throat, still hoping that he would wake from this awful dream as he asked, “Could…could this have been caused by an accident?”

The mortician snorted at him but didn’t actually look amused by Serge’s question as he lifted a hand to rub his weary eyes. Then he sighed and said, “I don’t know too many people who are raped by accident.”

Serge nodded. He didn’t know why he did. Perhaps it was because his brain couldn’t immediately process that bit of information on top of the unfortunate news that someone genuinely had the gall to kill his best friend. But as soon as it did, he turned sharply on his heel and walked briskly out of the room, making his way quickly down the hall and out the front door before he pressed a hand against the side of the building and proceeded to hurl up whatever fluids he’d downed earlier that evening.

He stood out there, alone, for quite some time. The world was still spinning when Tarus joined him a while later, resting one of his massive hands against Serge’s shoulder as he offered a cold bottle of water from the lobby’s vending machine with the other. Serge took it graciously with a trembling hand, taking a swig to rinse the taste of vomit from his mouth before spitting it out again.

Rubbing his mouth dry with the back of his hand, Serge looked up at Tarus and said, “Whoever did it, I’m going to kill them.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Tarus assured him.

“I swear to the gods...” Serge breathed, eyes stinging. It took him a painfully long time to realize that he was crying for the first time in just about forever. “I swear to the bloody _fucking_ gods…”

Tarus patted him on the back again. “We need to get going.”

“What about Erro’s body?” Serge asked. “They’re going to cremate him to cover this up.”

Tarus shook his head. “Now that we know it’s really him, I’ll have someone come first thing tomorrow morning to move the body. I’ve already paid off the mortician.”

Nodding slowly, Serge took another sip of water. He swallowed it this time, trying to see if his stomach would behave for the ride home.

Once he’d collected himself, he climbed back into the car with Tarus and pressed his head against the cold window of the passenger side door as they made their way back to the palace. Erro hadn’t deserved whatever happened to him. Nobody did, really, but Erro less so. He was such a gentle soul. He always volunteered to take on the shittiest shifts whenever someone needed to shuffle around their schedule. He never insulted anyone or made a joke in bad taste. He had the easiest time finding a compliment for anyone, but not to the point of undo flattery. Erro just happened to really like people, and he wasn’t afraid to let it show.

Serge still felt incredibly ill when they returned, but more in a whole-body, achy kind of way and less like he was going to lose his lunch again. He walked in something of a daze as he and Tarus split off into their respective barracks, climbing back into Erro’s bunk to hopefully sleep off the worst of whatever hellish spell he’d fallen under. However, sleep didn’t come any easier for him this time. He just couldn’t get out over how Erro had looked on that table, like someone who’d suffered an incredible amount of pain in the final moments of his life, someone who had been alone and afraid and at the mercy of a monster. Death might have robbed Erro of his color, but this daemon had robbed him of so much worse.

Serge eventually passed out sometime around 5:00, but he only got in about two hours of fitful sleep before he had to get up again for his next shift. Tarus must have already spread word about what they discovered last night because everyone seemed even more tense than the day before. Coupled with the fact that Captain Canidius was missing, having apparently left well before everyone assumed he had been scheduled to leave, Serge was almost tempted to call the atmosphere hostile. It certainly didn’t help when Helena tracked him down at dinner to deliver him a more complete picture of everything she had gathered between then and the day before.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing she said as she slipped into the seat across from him at the table. “I can’t...I can’t believe it’s true.”

Serge just nodded, not knowing what else to say. He hadn’t bothered to grab anything to eat because his stomach was still out of sorts, simply nursing a cup of tea, which was about all that he could handle at the moment. 

“Romano and Wentworth spoke to me earlier this morning,” she continued, “if you’re interested in hearing what they found out.”

“Was it Canidius?” Serge asked, feeling the heat rising on the back of his neck. As utterly devastated as he was last night, he felt angry more than anything now, like he wanted to do nothing more than punch someone repeatedly, until his knuckles were raw and their face was a mess of bloody pulp. 

Helena, who could hear the venom in his voice, hesitated a moment before she nodded. She knew how he could get when he let his temper get the better of him, but she also knew that he needed the closure.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Serge tried not to let the world spiral, which was difficult with how tight his chest felt, like he needed to scream and never stop.

“Romano was able to find footage of Canidius leaving the palace a minute after Erro that night,” she explained. “Canidius followed him for a few blocks while Erro tried to find a cab, but not every shop has a functioning security system, so Romano wasn’t able to get actual footage of Canidius or anyone else jumping Erro.”

“Then how can we be sure it was him?”

“I think Wentworth pretty much confirmed it,” Helena said. “Apparently, she actually hadn’t heard that Erro was dead until you mentioned it at dinner last night, but she knew Erro had been acting odd for the last month. Since her brother mans the palace security cameras, she asked if he or anyone else had caught sight of anything weird that would shed a little light on what happened to Erro.”

Lowering his hands to his lap, Serge stared at her for a long, hard moment. “Did Canidius assault him on camera?”

Unfortunately, Helena shook her head. “No, but Erro came up to the security booth and asked to see the footage from outside Canidius’ office one night. Wentworth’s brother said it only showed Erro entering the room with Canidius and then stumbling out again about an hour later looking dishevelled and distraught. It wasn’t really proof of anything, but Erro asked outright if that would be enough to open a complaint against Canidius for sexual assault.”

“Fuck…” Serge breathed, feeling sick all over again. Pretty much everyone was connected to somebody else in the military, but Canidius had a lot of power in his corner. If someone filed a complaint against him, he’d find a way to shoot it down before it could get off the ground. 

It made sense then why Erro hadn’t told anyone else what happened. He hadn’t been believed when he tried to report it the first time, so he decided to just play it safe and leave.

In all likelihood, that was exactly what he would’ve told Serge if they’d gone for that drink together.

“It hurts,” Helena said quietly. “I know. Canidius has already left, but Tarus says we still have Erro’s body as proof. Canidius left…‘evidence’ on him, I guess. Maybe if our superiors won’t do anything about this, we can go to the press and—”

“I’m sorry,” Serge interjected, rising from his seat. “I need to go lie down.”

“Of course,” she mumbled as she watched him leave, knowing not to push him once he decided that he’d heard enough.

He didn’t go to lie down, though. At least, not immediately. He hit the gym first, focusing all of his energy and his hatred on pulverizing a punching bag. One of the new privates wandered by to spar with him, but that match was short lived. Serge couldn’t restrain himself even if he tried.

When he finally kicked off his boots and collapsed, fully clothed, onto his own bed that night, it wasn’t because he intended to fall asleep. He simply wanted to wait until everyone else nodded off and then see if he couldn’t track down Sgt. Connex to purchase something outrageously alcoholic under the table. Then he would drink himself blessedly blind and deal with the consequences in the morning.

He therefore had the shit scared out of him when he finally slipped back out of bed and turned around to find Tarus standing there in his dark fatigues again. Serge swore under his breath and asked the man what the hell he was doing there, but the only answer he got was the black head mask that Tarus handed to him before pulling on one of his own. 

Serge stared at the block cloth for a moment before he shoved it over his head, his anger and grief momentarily blurred beneath the sharp thrill of something that promised to be both cruel and exciting as he followed the other man out across the courtyard and around to the back of the palace where they kept a series of warehouses. Neither one of them said anything as Tarus wound his way through the buildings before slipping into the side door of one. It was dark instead, lit only by a solitary light over the far, far row of spare vehicle parts and other assorted equipment. As they approached, Serge could hear someone’s muffled shouts, these short, sharp bursts of noise that you really only ever hear when someone is getting a proper thrashing.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise then when Serge turned down that last row to find Captain Canidius tied to a chair, gagged and blindfolded, as one of the seven other masked soldiers gathered around him laid into him with their fists. Serge didn’t know who any of the other people could be—Erro had many friends, some of whom were usually considered the unsavory sort by their peers—nor did he care to find out, which was why he had to silently applaud Tarus for the setup. 

This was bloody fucking perfect. 

And as equally satisfying when he stepped forward and slugged Canidius hard enough across the jaw that he knocked the chair over. Someone had to hold it stationary for him as he took his next few shots, relishing every little scream Canidius choked out behind his gag and hoping to the gods that Canidius knew on behalf of whom they were doing this all for.

As much as he wanted to beat Canidius until he blacked out, the night was still young and there were many turns to be had before they would be through with the other man. Serge probably stood there for about an hour, drinking the cheap liquor someone had brought along for the event as he watched everyone else lay into the Canidius, up until two of his companions got into a heated debate over something off to one side. When they spoke, Serge realized that he didn’t recognize their voices, but he did know that they shared the dialect of the herdsmen that generally lived in the far north, out where people were rumored to pay an eye for an eye. It made sense then that they were arguing over whether they should break every bone in Canidius’ hands, which was apparently the standard fare for rapists in their clan, or kill him, which probably would’ve been more satisfying. 

Unfortunately, their argument escalated much faster than anyone anticipated, resulting in a fist fight that forced several of the other soldiers present to intervene. The only people that didn’t participate in the ensuing madness were Serge, who was still staring down at Canidius through the alcoholic haze of his own anger, and the fellow standing beside him, who was rubbing his wrist in a way that suggested he hadn’t been careful in how he was dealing out his punches.

The guy with the sore wrist eventually turned away to grab a bottle of beer perched on a nearby shelf. He rolled up the bottom of his mask to take a swig of it before he turned it upside down over Canidius and said, “Was it worth it, you pig?”

Beyond the initial twitch Canidius made as he was drenched by the cold liquid, the man didn’t immediately move. He sat there for a while with his head hanging forward like a puppet with its strings cut, but then he slowly tilted it back, turning his bloody face up toward the light.

For some reason, Serge’s masked companion decided to loosen the gag around Canidius’ mouth. “Well?” the man snapped, “Was it?”

Serge _really_ didn’t understand why the other man wanted to hear anything Canidius had to say. Sure, it would be nice to hear Canidius beg for his life, but the man wasn’t exactly a coward, and Serge didn’t actually know what the endgame was here anyway. Would they kill Canidius? Probably not, but only because Serge was betting they were all low enough in the ranks that they would be summarily executed for murdering an officer if they were ever caught. Breaking every bone in Canidius’ hands might incentivize the other man to get the hell out of Gralea while he still could and maim him well enough to prevent him from hurting anyone else ever again.

Serge didn’t know how he felt about that, whether he preferred the idea of Canidius being dead or alive. He was just so goddamn pissed that his hands shook as he rolled up the bottom of his own mask and plopped one of his aunt’s cigarettes in his mouth before fumbling to light one of his matches.

It was as Serge struck his match against the powdered glass and phosphorous strip on the back of the packet that Canidius spat out a wad of blood and slurred, “If you’ve ever heard a little whore like Aurelius squeal, you’d agree that it was worth it.”

He spoke softly enough that Serge almost didn’t hear the man over the din going on behind him. He could hear people shoving each other around as he stood there with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth and the lit match poised an inch from the end. He was just so completely stunned by Canidius’ response that he didn’t know what to say.

He did, on the other hand, know what he could do.

Serge thought back on how Erro had looked lying there on that table, so cold and vacant. Canidius had hollowed him out like no one else could, and now Erro would never laugh or cry or dream again. He had been reduced to a cooling corpse in a morgue, one that Canidius and whoever was helping him had decided to burn for no other reason than to eliminate the evidence of his wrongdoings.

Now _there_ was an idea...Immolation. People used to burn their sacrifices to the gods to ensure that their prayers made it all the way up to heaven, which is where Serge hoped Erro was right now, because if Aurelius couldn’t get into heaven, what hope was there for any of them?

Probably none, considering the sort of trouble they were getting themselves up to right now in this war with Lucis. It wasn’t lost on Serge how wrong this was. Even if they lived in a dystopia, they were supposed to have higher expectations for themselves, weren’t they? That’s what Erro believed anyway, that there was more to life than anger and spite. There was something to be gained by turning away from the darkness and refusing to live in the shadow of one’s desires.

That notion left Serge at a crossroads. On the one hand, he so desperately wanted to light Canidius up and watch him burn, his embers flitting up and away to Erro. On the other hand, he had a feeling Erro would be so incredibly disappointed in Serge if he took it that far. The boy really didn’t have it in his heart to hate anyone, and for some reason it didn’t seem inconceivable to Serge that Canidius somehow wouldn’t be an exception.

As Serge stood there pondering what sort of man he was, the lick of fire at the end of his match began to burn its way down toward his fingertips. It was now or never, he realized, to make a decision that would, perhaps, change both their lives forever.

Serge inhaled slowly around the cigarette poised between his lips. 

His heart felt heavy, like it was about to break in two.

Then he lifted the match to the end of his cigarette and lit it.

Behind him then there came a shout, followed by a jarring elbow to his right kidney. The hit didn’t hurt him so much as it startled him, but the end result still wasn’t pretty, because dropping a burning match and on a man who had been recently doused in alcohol was about as much of a disaster as you could imagine. Canidius was engulfed in flames in a manner of seconds, certainly faster than even Serge anticipated. One moment, the man was sitting there in bloody satisfaction; the next, he was a literal inferno, screaming in a way that would forever haunt Serge’s nightmares.

What Serge could only describe as utter pandemonium shortly followed. Someone had the foresight to whip off their jacket in an attempt to beat down the flames on Canidius as someone else pulled Serge back from the fire by the scruff of his shirt, albeit a little too late. Serge’s mask was already smoldering and he could tell that the side of his face was burned. He also couldn’t see worth shit through the tears in his eyes as his savior yanked his mask off to hopefully mitigate the damage. Then they doused him in water—only Serge soon realized that this wasn’t really their doing, just the sprinkler system, which had finally kicked on and which was the only thing that saved Canidius and several pieces of equipment worth hundreds of thousands of gil from being burned to a complete crisp.

As was to be expected, as soon as the fire alarm sounded, everyone split. At least, everyone _tried_. Canidius was still tied to a car and mewling in agony, and Serge was staggering all over the place as he tried to find his way through the darkness for a door. He’d suffered through his fair share of injuries over the years, but nothing compared to the pain he was in right now. It felt as though someone had buried a dagger in his face and was digging it around as they tried to trigger every single pain receptor they could find.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get very far outside the warehouse before he was caught. Burnt, soaked, and running from the scene of the crime painted him quickly as the culprit behind the unexpected fire, which meant that he had all of three seconds to realize a few soldiers were closing in on him before someone lifted their rifle and butted it hard against the side of his head.

Then the whole world went dark.

~***~

As uneventful as the following day was, Serge knew that his life as he knew it was well and truly over.

He woke up in a prison cells that was located in the palace’s literal dungeon, although he supposed he should have considered himself lucky that there were no torture devices in sight. The side of his face still smarted, but someone had lathered it up with ointment and bandaged it while he had been unconscious. Even so, he knew this incident was bound to leave him with a nasty mark. There was just no coming back from a burn of that magnitude.

Captain Halko, who was apparently in charge of interrogations, dropped by around noon to ask him what happened and who was involved in the incident last night, since Canidius seemed to be lucid enough that he could remember that he had been attacked by more than one assailant. Serge only told him that he knew Canidius had been responsible for the rape and murder of Cpl. Aurelius Erro and that the man had been bound and beaten for revenge. The fire had been an accident, nothing more than that.

Fortunately, Halko didn’t press him for the names of anyone else who had been involved in the attack, not that Serge really knew anyone beyond Tarus. Instead, he looked vaguely disgusted by Serge’s accusations and left promptly afterward, muttering something under his breath that sounded vaguely like, _‘I fucking knew it.’_

That marked the end of the visitations for the day. Serge spent the night lying on the hard-as-rocks cot under the tiny window ten feet above him, only managing to doze lightly a little while before dawn. He woke shortly, though, to the smell of cigarette smoke and the sudden appearance of his aunt sitting in a chair on the other side of the bars of his cell.

“Were you trying to kill him?” were the first words that came out of her mouth. Then she took a pull from her cigarette, staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t quite read.

Sitting upright on his cot, Serge shook his head.

“...Normally, I would find that hard to believe,” she replied, knowing just how many people he’d already killed in his career. “However, one of the idiots in attendance said you were only trying to light a cigarette, which you dropped at the scene of the crime, so I suppose I should believe you.”

Serge’s heart sank as he realized someone else had been caught already. 

“Speaking of your accomplices,” Captain Vance continued, “you don’t know how lucky you are that many of them have friends in high places, even higher than that of the Canidius family. More than a few officers are currently in your corner, not least of all because Canidius had a lot of enemies and Erro had a lot of friends. It certainly helps that Helena came forward yesterday with the evidence your colleagues collected concerning what Canidius did to that poor boy.”

As nice as it was to know that he had more than a few people backing him, Serge had seen people court-martialed and shot for more minor offenses. In fact, he wouldn’t still be here in this prison cell if anyone had intended to let him get off scot free. 

“What’s going to happen?” he asked, resisting the urge to touch the side of his face, which was throbbing uncomfortably under the thick layers of gauze.

“As much as everyone wishes they’d had the opportunity to lay into Canidius like you did, that doesn’t excuse you from beating and nearly killing a man. Let’s also not forget that you lit a fire in a warehouse containing several pieces of valuable equipment. If anything had been damaged, they would’ve hung you already for sabotage.”

“Do you think they might still execute me?”

Vance merely shrugged. “Probably not, otherwise they would’ve done away with you already. However, I have no doubt they’ll want to make an example of you some other way.”

Serge didn’t know how he felt about that. Dying didn’t really appeal to him, but neither did paying for his mistake in some cruel or unusual way concocted solely to scare everyone back into order.

Rubbing the non-burnt side of his face in frustration, Serge asked, “How’s Canidius faring? I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

Finally, a bit of emotion flickered across Vance’s face, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Well, you dropped a match on his lap. I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to piss straight again. In fact, I don’t know how he’s going to function at all. You burned off far more than just his manhood.”

“Serves him right…”

“Yes, well, I also have a bit of bad news to share with you concerning the Captain.”

Serge stiffened. The fact that Canidius was still breathing already didn’t sit well with him, so he couldn’t imagine what she could possibly tell him that would be worse.

“Someone was able to arrange his flight from Gralea before he could be questioned about what he did to Erro,” she explained. “We don’t know where he is right now, but with any luck, he won’t survive the trip with his injuries.”

Suddenly, Serge could feel his whole body deflating. He leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, and tried to focus on the crack on the stone floor beneath his right foot. Canidius didn’t deserve to just ride off into the sunset like that, even if he was a charred husk of the man he used to be. He needed to face justice here, in Gralea, just like Serge was.

“Chin up,” Vance said as she tapped the ash off the end of her cigarette. “After what you did to him, I don’t think he’ll be hurting anyone else ever again.”

As comforting as that thought was, Serge was still pained by the news of the man’s escape. In fact, he could hardly keep focus on anything else his aunt had to say, which was why he was grateful that she soon cut their conversation short to return to her duties, leaving him to his solitude for the rest of the day. His only other visitor was the medic who came to check the burn on his face and replace the gauze with something fresh a little while after dinnertime.

He spent another fitful night in his prison cell before a couple of guards were sent to collect him in the morning. They cuffed him and led him upstairs, where the senior officers had their offices. He was led down a hall and then into a large conference room, one that had a window that spanned the length of the eastern wall, providing a lovely view of the gloomy little river that ran between the palace and the downtown sector of Gralea. 

Much to his surprise, Commodore Aranea Highwind was waiting for him there, sitting at the head of the table with her legs kicked up, still dressed in her dragoon armor. She looked mildly annoyed, a perfect contrast to the smarmy little look Chancellor Ardyn Izunia wore when he briefly glanced over his shoulder at Serge before turning his gaze back on the bleak scenery beyond the window. He stood there with his hands neatly folded together behind his back, his hat sitting askew on his head, as if he were merely a spectator of this little event.

“ ‘Cpl. Augustus Serge’ is it?” Lady Highwind asked, bending smoothly at the waist to grab a file off the table in front of her without lowering her legs. She flipped it open and leaned back again to get comfortable.

“Yes, ma’am,” Serge said as the guards that had escorted him there retreated back into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked as she perused his file. “More importantly, do you know what you _are_ right now?”

Having no idea how to decipher that last question, Serge shook his head. “No, ma’am…”

Highwind glanced up at him briefly before resuming her work. “You mean to tell me that you _don’t_ remember setting a man on fire?”

“I do, ma’am,” he amended himself quickly. “What I meant to say is that I don’t know what exactly I ‘ _am_ ’ to you.”

“Canon fodder,” she replied readily. 

...Oh.

“Not even the good kind,” Highwind sighed, closing the file and tossing it back onto the table. She looked so disappointed, Serge couldn’t help with how utterly inadequate he suddenly felt standing there before her. “But I’m low on men and I need so many people on my team before they’ll let me resume my work in Lucis. You’re my ticket out of here, Serge, at least until you drop dead—which you undoubtedly will, because the Kingsglaive are freakishly effective at what they do...”

Lucis? 

_Kingsglaive_? 

...He was being sent much farther than just the ‘front line’ then, which really was something of a death sentence. If Highwind was planning on going toe-to-toe with Cor the Immortal and his forces any time soon, and on the Lucian’s home turf no less, there was a very good chance Serge wouldn’t make it home alive.

Serge opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again, not sure what to say. His fate had already been decided for him.

He didn’t have a say in anything anymore.

Watching him fumble for a response, Highwind sighed and said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Everyone balks when I mention the Kingsglaive. You’re gonna hate them.” She turned her head toward Izunia. “Unless you can think of a better use for him, Chancellor?”

Still staring out the window, Izunia raised a hand and waved it dismissively just above his shoulder, as if half-heartedly swatting at an invisible fly. “He’s far too old.”

There was a grunt of agreement from Aranea before she finally kicked her feet off the table and sat up a little straighter in her seat. “On a somewhat unrelated note, I’m sorry about your colleague. Cpl. Erro was a swell guy. I don’t know how thrilled he would’ve been to learn that his death could incite such violence, but I’m sure he would’ve been touched to know that so many people wanted to bring him justice.”

Having expected to hear nothing more than a thorough tongue-lashing that day, Serge was very surprised to hear her say that. Unless he was mistaken, he could see a slight softening at the corners of her eyes, as if maybe she knew Erro better than Serge realized and was just as hurt as anyone about his passing.

“A terrible loss indeed,” Izunia said, although it was hard to tell how he really felt on the matter by the tone of his voice. Either he was likewise touched or merely feigning human emotion again. 

Serge stared at the back of the other man’s head for a long time, feeling just a smidgen off about something.

Then Aranea cleared her throat and said, “We leave at first light tomorrow. I think your superiors want you to spend another night cooling your heels in the dungeons, but if you pack quickly enough in the morning, I’m sure you can squeeze in a few goodbyes with your colleagues.” Then she waved her hand toward the door, wordlessly telling him to take a hike as politely as she could.

Serge couldn’t salute effectively with his hands cuffed, but he tried his best and then headed out into the hallway, where the previous guards were still waiting for him. They escorted him back to his cell in the basement, where he laid down on his cot and thought about how fucking much he was going to miss everyone once they dragged him out of there.

The following day came too soon. Around 5:00 in the morning, a guard opened his cell door, removed his cuffs, and walked with him all the way to his barracks. There were only a few people out and about at this hour, but nobody that Serge really knew, so he kept his head down and quietly crept into his room to pack everything he kept in the small trunk at the foot of his bunk. Once he managed to stuff his things into his rucksack, he glanced down the row of bunks and considered waking someone up to say goodbye, like Hant or Frea or Gordon. Then he thought about how hard it would be to explain that he was leaving Niflheim to die a good death and decided that he had neither the time nor the energy to field their questions. So he hiked his bag over his shoulder and rejoined the guard outside, following the somber man as he led Serge to the airfield just outside the palace walls.

Aranea’s red airship sat on one of the landing pads, the only hive of activity at this hour of the morning. There were only about six people hurriedly loading the hangar up with supplies while a man that Serge recognized as Captain Wedge stood a little ways off to one side conversing with three other soldiers. With their backs turned to Serge, he couldn’t tell who exactly they were until he was nearly upon them, and while he was initially glad to see that Helena, Wentworth, and Tantum had come to say goodbye, he was immediately alarmed when he noticed the rucksacks at their feet.

“Mates,” Serge said as he approached, “what the fuck?”

“ _Language_ ,” Captain Kincaid muttered, looking momentarily mortified by his behavior.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Serge quickly said a little sheepishly. “...May I have a moment alone with this lot?”

Seemingly pacified by his apology, the Captain nodded and wandered off to speak with one of his other men, a rather annoyed bespectacled man with a clipboard who apparently didn’t look too pleased with one of the crates that had been dropped off by the airship’s ramp.

Once the Captain was out of earshot, Serge turned to his companions and said, “What’s all this then?”

“Word got out that you’ve been transferred to Highwind’s team,” Helena replied.

“And?”

“We decided to volunteer our services to her as well.”

“Are you _mad_?”

“Possibly,” Wentworth chuckled, then her face fell a little. “But really? I’m in pretty deep trouble for snooping around the security booths. I learned a _lot_ of things about our superiors that I shouldn’t have, so I’m pretty much fleeing the country before anyone decides to take me to task for it.”

As desperately as Serge wanted to know what else she had uncovered with her brother’s help, he was already in enough trouble as it was. There was no need to get any of his other superiors mad at him.

Turning to Tantum, he asked, “What about you?”

His friend shared a small, weary smile with him, like he had given up on something and was just trying to find a new direction. “Somebody helped Canidius slip away. Did you hear about that?”

Stomach twisting painfully, Serge nodded. 

“I’m tired of all the politics around here,” Tantum continued, staring off toward the horizon. There was a faint glow on the other side of the distant mountains, muted by a tight cluster of clouds. As always, Gralea smelt heavily of rain, even though this would probably be another dry day. “I think I just need to get out of this place, you know?”

“I feel the same as him,” Helena said with a nod at Tantum. “Also, I don’t think either of our parents would forgive me if I let you wander off into enemy territory alone.”

“You don’t think I’d survive on my own?” Serge asked, somewhat insulted, even if he agreed with her.

“Moron that you are, that’s _precisely_ what I think.”

“Hey now—”

“Well, what do we have _here_?”

Serge craned his head around as Commodore Highwind marched over the tarmac to her ship, tossing her own rucksack at her nearest subordinate to carry aboard. She eyed up Serge’s companions and then side-glanced at Captain Kincaid where he stood at the top of the ramp.

“Volunteers,” Kincaid loudly explained over the rising growl of the airship’s engines as they began to warm up. He looked extremely pleased, as if this wasn’t an everyday occurance. 

Highwind gave the group another onceover, like she thought they were nuts, then she nodded at the ship and said. “Pack your things in tight and start helping the others with our cargo. We haven’t got all day.”

After a chorus of _‘yes ma’am’_ s, the Commodore made her way up the ramp to join the Captain. Tantum and Wentworth quickly followed suit, but Helena hooked her hand around Serge’s elbow before he could join them.

Once the others were out of earshot, she asked, “Did you mean to do it?”

“Do what?” So much had happened in the last few days, he wasn’t sure which of his horrifying missteps she was referring to.

Brows furrowed in concern, Helena stared at him, searching for some unknown answer. Her grip on his arm tightened momentarily, though not painfully, more so as if she were trying to convey her support for him regardless of his answer. “Did you mean to light Canidius on fire?”

It was surprising how quickly one little question could lodge a lump of emotion in his throat, all his hatred and grief rolled up right where he couldn’t reach it. It brought him back to that terrible moment when he stood with a flame in his hand and Canidius at his mercy, wondering whether it was more important to honor Erro’s life or his wishes.

“...No,” he replied, though he could barely make a sound. He had to clear his throat and try again. “No. I won’t pretend that the thought didn’t cross my mind, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t think Erro would’ve wanted me to.”

Just like that, the tension in Helena’s face melted away into relief. She squeezed Serge’s arm again. “You’re right. I’m sure he’s glad you didn’t go through with it.”

To be honest, Serge didn’t know what Erro thought about it. Like most people, Serge had an inkling that there was something beyond death, but he didn’t know if that was eternal peace. For all he knew, Erro could be trapped in the moment of his death, alone and afraid and in so much agony…

“Let’s go,” he said as he adjusted the strap of his rucksack over his shoulder, pretending that the noisome sensation in his stomach was from working on an empty stomach and nothing more.

With one last comforting squeeze from Helena, they boarded Commodore Highwind’s airship and began the next chapter of their lives.

~***~

Or should he have said ‘chapters’ because he soon lost track of how many years they spent under the leadership of what Serge quickly learned was the most amazing officers in the Niflheim army. 

Much to the Commodore’s surprise, nobody died on their first mission together, or the one after that, or the many thereafter. Captains Wedge Kincaid and Biggs Callux, who were probably the most jovial people Serge had ever met of their rank, liked to think that having new members on the team with a fairly unique and diverse set of skills finally tipped the scales in their favor. Highwind, on the other hand, was of the opinion that it was really just the result of having more than the minimal requirement of warm bodies to throw at the opposition for once in her career; more corners could be covered, more guns could be trained on the enemy, more hands were available for the tasks at hand—that sort of thing. It was really all about the numbers.

Either way, as the survival rate of their little unit improved, those numbers began to grow. Highwind’s crew expanded from ten to thirty-four soldiers in the span of a year, with a few members reaching retirement age but the time the war was drawing to a close, even though they continued to take on some of the worst missions on Lucian soil. What had been intended as a punishment for Serge turned out to be a secret boon, one that allowed him to see the world in a way that he never would’ve dreamed before. After all, how many people could claim to have looked Cor the Immortal in the eye and lived to tell the tale, even if they were severely hamstrung by the experience?

Unfortunately, it was as the so-called ‘peace talks’ with Lucis began that Serge’s excitement turned to more of a grim resolve. Even though the papers in Niflheim stated that the Empire was travelling abroad to discuss the possibility of a treaty, Lady A informed her crew that this was all a ruse. As Aldercapt’s go-to person for the impossible, the orders Aranea received suggested otherwise.

Serge felt bad for the Lucians, although he wasn’t stupid enough to say that aloud in Gralea. Aldercapt already cared so very little about his own people that Serge couldn’t see the reason in spreading the Empire’s reach to the last corner of the world. Of course, as per Aranea’s explanation, Aldercapt was more interested in stealing some mythical rock than expanding his kingdom, but the man was mad enough that Serge couldn’t help but think the man was driven just a little by his completionist nature. Once Insomnia fell, the House of Aldercapt would reign supreme.

Of course, operating directly within Lucis, Serge soon learned that Aldercapt wasn’t quite as victorious as he first thought, even with this ‘Crystal’ safely stowed away in Gralea. Word soon got out that the new king of Lucis and his small retinue were making a fool of the military on their quest across the countryside. Serge didn’t know what that quest was, only that they travelled faster than anyone anticipated as they soon discovered when Aranea’s covert check-up on the Brigadier General Caligo Ulldor ended in an unexpected battle with the group. 

Serge hadn’t been in the airship at the time. Instead, he had been busy setting up camp outside the mobile base with the others when Lady A returned, smiling in that peculiar way of hers, like she usually did after a good sparring match with Lord Ravus. However, the only explanation she offered for her happy demeanour was that there was ‘trouble’ brewing on the horizon. Carmine, who had been monitoring the ground surveillance from the airship during the battle, was a little more forthcoming with the particulars of the fight.

“Considering how young they were, I’m surprised they were able to force a retreat on Lady A,” he explained a little later that evening as everyone huddled together around the campfire, with the exclusion of their superiors. “And they were Crownsguard, not Kingsglaive, so the prince was the only one who could warp. It was really quite impressive.”

“King Regis probably wouldn’t have sent his son off into the world with just anyone,” Helena mused aloud.

“Of course, but I could’ve sworn that one of the guards came from our stock.”

Tantum, who was in charge of manning the kettle, pulled the whistling pot off its perch over the fire and set it down beside him on the ground. Then he scrambled to plop a bag of tea leaves into each of the mugs suddenly handed off to him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“One of the blond fellows,” Carmine elaborated, staring up at the stars thoughtfully, as if ruminating on a pleasant dream. “He was absolutely _gorgeous_ , like the folk from the mountains, where Erro hailed from. I really wouldn’t be surprised if he had Nif blood in him.”

“Hm,” was Serge’s only contribution to the discussion, because it had been a very long time since Erro’s name had come up in conversation outside their regular toast and he was already lost in thought, thinking about how unfortunate it was that his dear friend never got the opportunity to see the beautiful Lucian countryside the same way they all had.

This would turn out _not_ to be their only encounter with the Lucian king. 

While half of their team, including Serge, were off hunting sahagins around the Vesperpool for a bit of fresh meat, Lady A and the others were asked to secure the ruins, as per Chancellor Izunia’s request. She disappeared for a day with the airship and returned later to inform them that she had recently assisted the king in his search for a piece of mythril ore and delivered him to his next destination, also at the behest of the Chancellor, which she didn’t seem too pleased about. Not the part about helping the Lucians, that is. Rather, the Commodore had gradually become disenchanted with the Empire, not least of all because she couldn’t understand what sort of trouble The Powers That Be were getting into. 

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said one evening over dinner, standing beside the fire as she made her announcement. “The situation back home is getting worse. The nights are getting longer, the daemons are getting bolder, and there’s been a quiet collapse in the ranks in Gralea. I haven’t received orders from anyone but the Chancellor for the last few months, and a lack of any response from Emperor Aldercapt makes me wonder if he’s running the show anymore.”

There were several soft murmurs of agreement around her. She wasn’t the only one who had become disenchanted over the past year, especially after the recent fiasco in Altissia. She just happened to be the only person brave enough to give a voice to her concerns.

“What I’m trying to say,” Aranea continued, “is that several other officers and I have decided that we will be deserting the military. We have already been in contact with officials in Lucis to begin the process of protecting both our people and theirs from whatever global disaster is altering our daylight hours. If you decide that your loyalties still lie with the Empire, or if you would like to take this opportunity to return to your families, I would be happy to drop you off outside Gralea. You have twenty-four hours to make your decision.”

Naturally, no one had any desire to continue serving an emperor that had seemingly vanished from the public eye once Insomnia was taken. Collectively, they then made their way to Tenebrae to begin their relief efforts, which is where Serge first latched eyes on the Lucian King and his retinue, although the tall blond fellow didn’t look like much of a Nif, at least in Serge’s opinion. Of course, it was hard to tell at a distance through the tiny slit in the visor of his helmet, but Carmine later informed him that the gentleman he had been talking earlier about was conspicuously missing.

After the king’s brief stay in Tenebrae, Cor the Immortal more or less materialized at their camp one night for a private discussion with Lady A, which resulted in her leaving for a quick trip back to Niflheim. When she returned, she informed them that General Besithia was just as much of a beast as the rumors had always painted him to be and that there was trouble afoot at the First Magitek Facility that needed to be addressed before they could return to Gralea to help with the relief efforts there.

However, establishing themselves at the facility was no easy feat. It took them ages to find an outpost that was far enough from the main facility where they wouldn’t run the risk of triggering a security response just by popping their head out the door. When Lady A explained the finer details of their mission, Serge hadn’t the slightest idea how they were supposed to search for ‘Zephyr’ unimpeded. 

“What about Mr. Argentum?” Captain Kincaid inquired during one of their many meetings. Everyone was sitting together in the observatory as they waited for the outpost to heat up. Nobody had been living there for quite some time, so they were more than a little concerned about the state of the water pipes.

“What about him?” Aranea asked from her seat in the corner, feet kicked up on the nearest table. She was nursing a cup of coffee and staring off into the middle distance, no doubt going over battle plans in the back of her mind.

From his position by one of the terminals, Wedge turned around in his seat and said, “I found the file for Besithia’s biometrics this morning. There’s a photo of him in there as a young man. He’s a spitting image of Mr. Argentum.”

Aranea’s eyes flickered to the Captain. “That...would explain a few things, actually.”

“Are they related?” Wentworth asked, huddled up in a blanket beside the Commodore.

“Kind of,” Aranea said. “The kid’s one of his clones.”

Which was an answer that won Serge’s personal award for the most bizarre thing he’d ever heard in his career, and which then prompted the Commodore to explain what she had learned during her last visit to the facility, including how she had bumped into this ‘Mr. Argentum’ along the way. Apparently, he was the gunman of the king’s group and the boy Carmine had pegged as a Nif. He was just one of the _many_ clones Besithia had made of himself and the only one who hadn’t been daemonified and turned into a magitek soldier, having been spirited away by Lucian spies when he was still just an infant.

As far as backstories went, this kid seemed to have everyone beat. It almost seemed like the will of the gods that the poor boy had been drawn back here after his amazing escape twenty odd years ago to destroy the man who had created him.

Serge wanted to meet him.

And he would, it turned out, after the Commodore came to the conclusion that this Argentum fellow—or ‘Shortcake,’ as she liked to call him—was just what the doctor ordered for their problem with the facility’s security system.

She made plans to fly out to Lestallum for supplies and asked for volunteers to help her with the trip. Serge felt a little guilty about returning to Lucis after all that they had done there on behalf of the Empire, so he declined, but he still sat with the Commodore that evening as they put together a list of what they needed. 

Near the end of their personal meeting, just as Serge was about to turn in for the night, Aranea gently touched his arm and quietly asked him to sit back down again.

“Is there something we’re forgetting, ma’am?” he asked. Maybe they were low on ammo? He would have to check with Helena.

“No, I just…” she rubbed the back of her neck as she stared across the room at the observatory window. It was an overcast night; the world outside was pitch black. “I was thinking of Cpl. Erro.”

Serge still didn’t know the extent to which she knew his old friend, but Erro had the sort of effect on people where they felt as though he was their closest companion after exchanging only a few words. Therefore, Serge wouldn’t be surprised if Aranea had only spoken with him once or twice.

“What about him?” Serge murmured, tentative as he was to ask. Even after all these years, his heart still ached when he thought about Erro’s last day on Eos.

“The last time I ever spoke with him was right after he had been discharged,” she explained. Serge already knew this, but he had to wonder if Aranea knew the extent to which everyone had to tried to piece together Erro’s final movements before his murder. “The Chancellor tried to get me to fly into Gralea earlier in the day, but I was delayed, which meant that Erro hadn’t really needed to stick around to speak with us. But he was always so polite, so he did.”

“Why did you want to meet with him?” Serge asked, which was really a question that he had been dying to ask her the entire time that he had been in her employ. In fact, he could feel a slight uptick in his heart rate, a symptom of his mounting terror and excitement, a yearning for another piece of the puzzle that he was still a little too scared to solve.

“Chancellor Izunia wanted to plant a spy in Insomnia,” she explained, “a capable and charismatic soldier who was young enough to pass for the prince’s age. You see, the quest that Noctis Lucis Caelum had embarked on a couple of months ago was set in motion by the Chancellor, but Izunia wanted to get it started years ago. Erro honestly would’ve been the perfect man for the job. If he had accepted the mission, it would have then been my job to find a way to get him situated in Insomnia.”

It looked as though Helena had been right when she assumed Aranea and the Chancellor wanted to recruit their companion for some secret mission. It made sense, anyway. Erro looked like someone who was fresh from highschool, and he knew how to talk his way into anyone’s good graces.

Chuckling under her breath, Aranea said, “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Izunia look so damn surprised as when Erro told him he wasn’t interested. The Chancellor offered him pretty much anything he wanted, but Erro still turned him down. The kid just wanted to leave Gralea and marry his childhood sweetheart.”

“He was very excited about getting married,” Serge agreed quietly. “...Is there a reason you’re thinking about him now, or were you just feeling nostalgic, ma’am?”

“I was actually thinking about the Chancellor first, wondering if there had ever been a time when he let his facade drop,” she replied. By now, everyone knew that the Chancellor was the one pulling the Emperor’s strings all along, using the war to put in motion a secret plan that nobody really knew all the details of yet. “He kind of did with Erro, now that I think about it.”

“How so?”

“After Erro declined his offer, Izunia just gave him this severe look and told Erro that a person shouldn’t let their feelings get in the way of their duty. And Erro…” Aranea frowned then, like she was vaguely pained by the memory, “Erro looked so incredibly tired, like something had brought him to a point where nothing could pull him out of the dark place he’d found himself in, and like he couldn’t understand why Izunia couldn’t accept that. Sometimes, I wonder if Izunia knew back then that Erro was leaving because he had been raped.”

Serge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He still had a hard time thinking about what had happened. 

Aranea touched his hand again, which made him flinch. “Vance tells me you feel guilty about him for some reason.”

Swallowing thickly, Serge wondered why he had allowed this conversation to go on for as long as it had. He was beginning to feel sick to his stomach, but…

Serge licked his lips. He had seen first hand why it wasn’t a good idea to keep secrets when it came to whatever ailed a person, physically or emotionally, so he took a deep breath and said, “Erro asked me to stay with him the night that he was murdered. I think he was going to tell me about Canidius, but I...I don’t know how to handle emotions, least of all someone else’s, so I declined. If I had instead stayed with him, well…”

“The only villain of this story is Canidius,” Aranea said firmly, “And for the record? You come off most of the time as a gentle soul, not like someone who doesn’t give a damn about anyone. Just be there for someone else when they need you, if you feel as though you should make it up to Erro somehow.”

It was a simple enough request, so he nodded his head and rose from his seat. After bidding her good night, he retreated to the barracks, which were now warm enough to be bearable, and climbed into an empty bunk, wondering why she had chosen then off all times to share this information about Erro with him.

But he soon understood when the Commodore returned from her trip to Lestallum. 

Serge was standing off to one side of the hanger with Tantum as he listened to his friend complain about the bitter cold when Aranea waltzed in through the hanger door, their guest hot on her heels. One look at Prompto Argentum and Serge’s knees just about folded beneath him. The startling blue eyes, the wispy blond hair, the streak of freckles across the bridge of his nose—it was like looking at a living memory, the closest incarnation of the dearly departed that Serge had ever known.

It was like looking at Erro again for the first time in forever, and Serge didn’t know how to cope with that beyond turning away suddenly and trying to remember how to breathe.

He realized then that Aranea was most likely thinking of Erro the other night because this kid was just about the spitting image of him.

“What the fuck…” Tantum breathed, openly gawking. Thankfully, they were far enough away that Mr. Argentum probably couldn’t tell that someone was staring at him. “Did you see—”

“Yes,” Serge replied, still trying to collect himself.

“...I had no idea Besithia looked so much like Erro as a young man. Do you think they were related somehow?”

“Possibly.” Despite his minor heart attack, Serge couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to watch as the kid followed Aranea to the barracks. This Argentum fellow looked nervous but excited, almost hopeful, like coming here was just as much a favour for him as it was for them. And really, who knew what the Commodore had told him to reel him in? This was such a cold and unforgiving place for someone his age. He clearly didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

Despite his concerns, Serge decided then and there that this Argentum fellow was none of his concern. _Distance_ was what this tired old heart of his needed, and distance was precisely what he was going to give it. 

Which was easier said than done when Aranea picked him for the following day’s infiltration and informed the group that someone needed to help the kid comb through Besithia’s old paper files. How Serge wound up in an aisle with Grant, arguing over who would have to stay behind, was beyond him, but he wasn’t ashamed in the least when he let a little desperation bleed into his voice as he said, “I _can’t_ be the one to stay behind, mate.”

“Well, I’m not staying either.” Grant muttered. “I’ve still got paper cuts from the last time we were in here.”

“Yeah, but the kid looks just like Erro.”

“Which is why I thought you’d be thrilled to work with him.”

“Look, mate—”

“Rock-paper-scissors,” Grant announced quickly as he stuck out his fist. “It’s the only sensible way to solve a problem of this magnitude.”

Frustrated, Serge took a deep breath. Then he held out his fist and proceeded to fail miserably twice in a row. He was about to demand that they play for the best three out of five matches, but then he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the kid standing there. Argentum looked somewhat overwhelmed by the veritable sea of boxes around them but almost excited to get started.

As much as it pained Serge to do so, he admitted defeat by pulling off his helmet and forcing a smile. Then he offered his hand to the boy for a shake. “The name’s Serge,” he said, staring into their newfound companion’s smiling eyes and trying not to think of how happy and carefree Erro used to be leading up to the end. “I’m going to lend you a hand today while the others sod off to gods-know-where.”

This elicited a smart remark from Grant, but Serge was only half listening as Argentum took the proffered hand and returned the shake, firmly but kindly, like he was genuinely pleased to make Serge’s acquaintance.

“Call me Prompto," he said.

~***~ 

It was difficult working alongside Prompto Argentum and not feeling as though the young man was somehow part of something…‘ _bigger_ ’.

Even as one of the least superstitious members of his team, Serge could tell there were unseen forces at play, something that was guiding Prompto into the gaping maw of darkness that was shaping up to be their future. This presentiment began with the apparent sighting of Chancellor Izunia, who had always been something of a walking omen, and deepened the first night after the blizzard struck. Feverish and weak, Prompto climbed into a cot upon their return from the facility and fell into a deep and nearly fitless sleep, one that was briefly interrupted by an unsettling episode as Serge and a few of the others sat together on the bunk beside him playing cards.

Rubbing the purpling bruise on his jaw, Serge watched as the young man slowly sat up on his bed and began to murmur quietly to himself. At a glance, he could tell that Prompto wasn’t ‘all there’ by the way that his half-lidded eyes never strayed from the middle distance when Serge leaned over to wave a hand in front of his face. However, there was a moment when Serge felt as though some part of the boy’s brain could sense him, because Prompto’s own hand shot out to stop him when Serge then reached down to touch his shoulder. Prompto’s warm hand enclosed his wrist, holding Serge firmly but gently at bay as the boy carried on his quiet conversation with himself. The only part of what he said that Serge could decipher was _‘—just one day —’_ before Serge slowly extracted his arm from Prompto’s grip and retreated to his own bunk, wondering to himself why the color of Prompto’s eyes suddenly looked anything but blue in the dim light of the barracks.

His wrist felt weird for a while after that. Not hurt, just oversensitive, like his skin was suddenly hyper aware of every touch, so much so that even the cuff of his shirt tickled a little. It was hard to pretend there was nothing unusual about what happened when the boy woke up again just long enough to replenish his fluids before conking out for another twenty-some hours, having no memory of his episode. Of course, he was sick, so some peculiarity of behavior was to be expected to him, but Lady A had apparently let a few things slip about their guest to Trisk before she left for the other outpost, which got the crew as a whole pondering the weirdest notions.

“Do you think he symbolizes something?” Tantum asked while they were all gathered together in the observatory during Prompto’s next sleeping stint.

“Hm?” Serge asked, the extent to which he could contribute to any conversation at the moment, still mesmerized as he was by the sudden sensitivity of his wrist. 

Tantum poured a bit of whitener into his coffee mug, twirling the cup gently around in an attempt to mix the contents without using a spoon. “Well...he’s one of the three Crownsguards of the ‘King of Kings,’ the guy who’s supposed to fight the darkness. That makes Blondie pretty important, too, doesn’t it?”

Serge blinked up at his friend as he gradually began to pull his brain back into the present. Confused, he said, “Come again?”

Tantum, bless his soul, merely sighed before spending the next half hour giving Serge the rundown of what he personally knew of Lucian history and what Aranea had learned about what went down between Chancellor Izunia and Noctis Lucis Caelum back in Gralea, although the fact that Izunia was the primary antagonist of this whole drama did not surprise Serge in the slightest. He felt terrible for Prompto now knowing that the poor kid had been thoroughly beaten and then strung up on a cross immediately after splitting ways with Aranea his first time in Niflheim. It was a long and painful way to suffocate, a subtle form of torture that Serge know someone of Izunia’s disposition would simply love to inflict on another human being.

“Like I was trying to say,” Tantum continued after bringing Serge up to speed. “Do you think that the Astrals intended for him to represent something? He’s Besithia’s kid _—_ Besithia’s _clone_ , right? He was supposed to become some abomination that would lay waste to Lucis. Instead, he devoted his entire life to serving the King of Lucis, both as a guardian and a friend, to undo all the evil things set in motion by his ‘father’.”

Even at a glance, Serge could see the threads of divine love woven into that story, the warm and indescribable kind that existed between the closest of friends and family or between the gods and their chosen acolytes. It _was_ an awful coincidence, one that made him wonder if everything about the boy wasn’t divinely ordained. For example, was Prompto brought back to this facility for some greater purpose, one that he might not even know? And was it purely by chance that he would find himself in the company of so many people who couldn't look upon him without seeing the face of someone they once dearly loved? 

What, then, _was_ he supposed to represent?

“What do you think he symbolizes?” Serge asked, terribly intrigued.

Tantum shrugged, like he might actually be embarrassed by his theory. So, Serge sat there quietly, patiently waiting for Tantum to find his voice again. Then his companion quietly said, “Redemption.”

“For who?”

“Everyone...Maybe even us.” Tantum stared out across the room, taking in all the people chatting amongst themselves as they worked away at their evening meals. “I mean, look at us. We’re Nifs. We’re not only a part of an empire that tried to enslave the world, we _actively_ participated in the whole enslavement process at one time.”

Serge had nothing to say to that because, well...yeah. They were certainly a part of the problem. There was no way he could deny that.

“I used to think that the Lucians were going to use the Crystal to save only themselves from the darkness,” Tantum continued, “which is why I assumed Aldercapt wanted to steal it in the first place, to make sure we were saved as well, but now I’m beginning to think that the King of Kings is actually going to save the whole of humanity when he returns.”

“And you got all that from looking at Prompto?”

Abashed, Tantum stared down into his coffee. “I mean...we’re Nifs because we were born in Niflheim, and most of us are soldiers because our families served in the military for countless generations. It’s hard not to feel as though we were born to be the bad guys and that we’ll somehow be taken to task for it, even though it was beyond our control. But Prompto...Prompto was made in the darkest corner of humanity’s imagination, yet he’s one of the closest companions of the fabled King of Kings. It just...it feels like the gods are saying that anyone can be redeemed, no matter their circumstances.”

It was an interesting thought, and one that Serge couldn’t outright deny, especially since he already had his suspicions that there was something otherworldly about the kid.

But as much as Tantum’s theory resonated with something deep inside him, Serge found himself questioning that feeling after his second trip with Prompto down to the facility ended worse than the first. After waking up stuffed in some maintenance closet and wandering the halls in search of his lost companion for practically an hour, he stumbled across Prompto nearby a pack of flans, having been propelled so violently through the air by one that his head bounced off the floor when he hit the ground. Serge couldn’t blame Prompto for then taking a swipe at him with his knife before he realized just who it was that he was aiming for because Serge hadn’t really expected to find anyone else alive in there either after all that time he’d spent out cold.

Looking down at the boy as Prompto stuttered out an apology, eyes red-rimmed and wide with fear, Serge couldn’t help but think that his newfound friend was more likely a victim of circumstance than some divine entity in the greater game of life. Or, if he _was_ important, he certainly didn’t know it, because all that Serge could see was a terrified young man in desperate need of help, someone who had come to this godforsaken place for one thing and unfortunately found something entirely different.

He didn’t like the look of the kid so afraid, although he preferred it to the kind of shell-shocked expression he wore after they returned to the outpost and gave Captain Kincaid the rundown of what happened. Of course, running into Izunia—who was really there, it turned out—gave most people the chills, but it looked wrong on the face of someone who could shoot from the hip as well as this kid.

So, Serge tried to ground him in the here and now by quietly asking, “Do you want something to eat?”

When Prompto didn’t immediately respond, staring into the middle distance like he had the night before, Serge gently clapped him on the shoulder. 

Prompto flinched back from him, almost as if he’d been burned. Then he immediately looked embarrassed, which made Serge feel like absolute shite.

“Sorry, mate,” Serge mumbled, retracting his hand. “You didn’t answer, so I wasn’t sure if you heard me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What was your question?” was Prompto’s faint response. He sounded far away, like he still wasn’t quite present.

For the first time in a long time, Serge felt the stirrings of a more primal kind of fear. He felt eerily as though he was suddenly in another time and place, staring into the deep and quiet corner of someone else’s mind where a secret was hiding, one that needed to see the light of day before it was too late.

And like the fool that he was so long ago, Serge balked again.

He offered the kid some food and let him wander off on his own toward the barracks. There was no one here that wanted to hurt the boy, Serge knew that, but he still felt as though he was making a mistake by letting him walk away like that. So, he grabbed a thermos of broth and chased Prompto down to his bunk, intent on asking him what was wrong, only he got there a little too late. Prompto had already tucked himself into bed, eyes glazing over even as Serge gave his shoulder a shake and asked him what really happened between him and Izunia. 

He really was too late.

Shaken, Serge grabbed one of the cigarettes from his bag that he’d been holding onto for practically a year now and retreated just outside the outpost to smoke it in secrecy. As he stood in the small field of light just outside the hanger door, he stared out into the surrounding darkness and wondered if he would see Izunia waltzing up onto the plateau like some figment of his dreams, his lips curled into one of his trademark smiles, all too-white teeth and simmering malice.

He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice that Helena had crept up on him until she was pulling the cigarette from his mouth and flicking it off into the newly fallen snow. He was honestly too startled by her sudden appearance to be irritated with her intrusion. 

“I thought you quit,” she muttered, shaking a little as she tried to pat a bit of the warmth back into her arms. “Are you really still so desperate that you would come out in this blasted cold for a smoke?”

“...Am I allowed to smoke inside?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

She slugged him in the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow,” he said, giving it a rub.

“I thought you _died_ today,” she mumbled, looking genuinely distressed by the notion. “You’re normally a smart guy, Augustus. What happened down there?”

Helplessly, he shrugged. As efficient as the MTs were in battle, they were a remarkably noisy bunch, which is why he still had a hard time believing one had gotten the drop on him that afternoon.

“I don’t know…” he finally said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Actually, maybe I do. _Izunia_ happened. He wanted to speak with Mr. Argentum alone, so he took me out of the equation.”

“Then why didn’t he just kill you?”

Serge shrugged again. This was all just guesswork at the moment, at least until they could press the kid for more details in the morning. “So Argentum would feel compelled to listen?”

They stood in silence together for a short while, mulling over his answer. Then Helena gazed up at the moon, which was surrounded by a little ring of clouds, and said. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

“Afraid of the daemons, are you?”

Serge was expecting another punch from her for his smart remark, but she only turned to him and sadly said, “Aren’t you?”

~***~

Serge couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong and getting worse.

Prompto woke in the dead of night, feverish and mumbling to himself again, although Serge had the foresight not to touch him during this episode. He merely lay on the bunk next to Prompto’s as he tried to pick out any words from the ensuing monologue that he might recognize, maybe a little something to fill in the blanks on what the boy discussed with Izunia. ‘ _Metelyk_ ’ was the only word that came out loud and clear, but Serge didn’t have the faintest idea what that was, which was exactly what he told the kid when Prompto woke again later that night, this time a little more like himself. Unfortunately, Prompto didn’t know what it meant either.

But apparently Wentworth did.

“Did you know that they unearthed and translated some old Solheim poetry books about twenty years ago?” she said before sipping her morning coffee. She paused to make a quick toast to Erro with him and then she continued. “One of the poems was called ‘Metelyk,’ oddly enough. It was a part of what they assumed was some anthology about the heavens.”

Well, color him intrigued, because that sounded like one hell of a coincidence. 

“What did it say?” he asked.

Wentworth squinted in concentration, like she was drawing a memory from the furthest reaches of her mind. “Oh man, I read it all the way back in grade school…”

“So you don’t remember?”

“I remember it a _little_ ,” she clarified. “At least, I remember that most of the poems seemed like weird stories rather than any description of the Astrals. ‘Metelyk,’ for example, was about a widower who had three children. They were starving, so he wove a net from the stars and sat on the dock outside his house one evening to catch some fish, but he was distracted by this little white butterfly that hovered over the water just outside his reach. He spent the better part of the night trying to catch it. He eventually _did_ get his net over it, but the butterfly was made of light, so he ended up catching nothing at all. Defeated, he returned to his house to find that the children were missing. In the end, it turns out that they were on a boat on the lake. The butterfly had only been a distraction.”

“That...” he said, “sounds confusing.”

“Which is probably how it found its way into our curriculum,” Wentworth chuckled. She sipped a little more of her coffee and then said, “I remember that the lesson was all about ‘word choice’ and analyzing the gender of the verbs and all that other grammatical nonsense. I’m really not too good at that sort of thing, but the word that the author used for ‘father’ was sometimes used to describe criminals or terrible rulers, and the ‘children’ weren’t referred to in the correct possessive form, which meant that they probably weren’t his. In fact, the people of Solheim believed that water represented freedom or death, so it was kind of implied that these kids represented people who had either died because of the man or were freed from captivity.”

With that ominous story in mind, Serge found himself hovering around Prompto when he finally joined them that morning. The kid still didn’t look too good, but he was apparently feeling well enough to join them on their next trip down to the facility. After a quick chat with Wedge about his discussion with Izunia and after telling Serge about Besithia’s bedroom, Prompto seemed to adopt this steely sort of resolve, as if he seemed quite determined to see some personal task through to the end.

Serge wondered if there was still something Prompto wasn’t telling them and decided that he might try to have an honest conversation with the kid when they returned that night, but he ended up piecing the mystery together without Prompto’s input once they found their way into Besithia’s private quarters.

Or rather, Tantum did, because as soon as Serge hopped over the chair that Prompto had wedged in the doorway, he was distracted by the fact that there really was a working terminal in the corner, just like the kid told them. Even with the lights out in the room, the screen was on, the only source of illumination in that large, empty space. Wedge and three of Serge’s other crewmates quickly set to work on it, while Tantum poked around the rest of the room, checking the en suite in the corner first for signs of anything that might be lurking behind the door before stopping in the middle of the room to stare rather hard and long at the bed. 

Serge was momentarily distracted by the fact that Prompto had chosen to remain outside in the corridor, so he didn’t realize something was wrong until Tantum turned to him and said, “Why do you suppose the Chancellor dragged Prompto in here to talk instead of just tying him to a chair in the dining room?”

As odd as the question was, it was a pretty good one. 

“The kid told me that Izunia wanted to remind him that he was nothing more than the General’s clone,” Serge replied. But now that he thought about it, that didn’t make much sense. Beyond the wallpaper, which was the same as that found in the dining room, there was nothing really personal about this space. Not even a few paintings or pictures. Just a bed, a cabinet, and his little workstation in the corner...

The look on Tantum’s face suggested that he was also having a hard time understanding the logic behind Prompto’s theory. “I mean, if he thinks the Chancellor was trying to unsettle him, I can see how waking up tied to a bed would freak anyone out...”

For the first time since setting foot in there, Serge took the opportunity to really _look_ at the bed. The sheets were tangled together and there was a bit of rope tied around one of the corner bars of the headboard. Serge walked around to this side of the bed as Tantum rounded the other, unable to ignore the way his stomach was suddenly trying to retreat toward his spine. What kind of conversation could the Chancellor possibly need to have with the poor kid in here?

Something felt so very wrong about this...

Faintly, Serge found himself asking, “Do you think he threatened to rape the kid?”

“No,” Tantum said, but the tone of his voice suggested that what he _really_ thought wasn’t much better.

Serge glanced at him over the bed and noticed that Tantum had reached down to pick up the wastebasket that was beside it. He was staring down into it with a mix of anger and disgust.

Serge felt numb all of a sudden, like he was walking through some horrible kind of dream. 

Even knowing what Tantum was probably looking at, Serge found himself asking, “What is it?”

“A condom,” Tantum muttered before he threw the wastebasket down again.

Serge tried to remember how to breathe, but he could barely feel the air filling his lungs.

No...

No, no, no, no, _no_ —

He didn’t realize he was moving toward the door until Captain Kincaird caught him unexpectedly by the elbow and spun him halfway around. 

Rather sternly, Wedge asked, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“You heard him!” Serge snapped, gesturing to Tantum with his free hand. “That _bloody_ fucking bastard—”

“—assaulted Mr. Argentum. Yes, I know.” Wedge loosened his grip marginally, although he didn’t relinquish it entirely as he said. “And the poor boy is clearly struggling with that right now, which is why I would advise you _against_ telling him that everyone in this room suddenly knows.”

“But—”

“This is an _incredibly_ difficult thing for a person to discuss for any number of reasons,” Wedge continued. “Do _not_ put him on the spot.”

There was a mounting heat in Serge’s chest that was slowly killing him. He wanted to tell the other man that his only regret in life was _not_ talking when he should have, which was precisely what Wedge was asking him to do here. He wanted to allow Prompto to wander down the dark and lonely road that Erro had stumbled across so many years ago, one that already involved the likewise desecration of his body and would probably end in his death.

Though Serge was trembling with anger, Wedge didn’t flinch. He just stared at Serge, calmly and quietly, like maybe he did know something of Serge’s internal struggle. And perhaps...and perhaps he had a point there, because Erro had certainly been so scared and embarrassed about what happened to him that he hadn’t said anything to his friends even a month after Canidius attacked him.

It was a struggle, but Serge eventually got a handle on himself again. He was still thoroughly disgusted with what Izunia had done, but he was no longer literally trembling with rage. Wedge was a kind and sensible man. He knew how to handle people better than Serge did.

Sensing that the danger had passed, the Captain finally removed his hand. Then he cleared his throat and said, “No one here is really equipped to deal with someone in Argentum’s mental state right now, but I think it’s only common sense that you make him feel safe enough to discuss what happened, should he so desire. And watch him—” Wedge glanced over at Tantum. “Both of you. He is not to be left alone, at least down here. If he asks for a bit of privacy at the outpost, let him have it.”

“Yes, sir,” Serge mumbled.

“Good. Now, here—” the Captain reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Serge. It looked as though he had drawn a map on one side. “There’s a few things you should grab before we leave. It’s a bit of a trek, but I think that’s just what the doctor ordered right about now. Take Mr. Argentum away from this horrible place.”

Serge suddenly couldn’t imagine how hard Prompto must have struggled to bring them back to Besithia’s quarters, although Serge had something of an idea as to how badly the experience was still affecting the boy when Prompto jumped about a foot in the air as Serge and Tantum reemerged in the corridor. Thankfully, neither Helena nor Wentworth immediately seemed to notice his bizarre reaction, so Serge tried to keep their attention by flattening out the map and giving them a quick rundown of what their task was for the afternoon. Soon enough, they were off to steal a few more of Besithia’s coveted prototypes.

It felt odd, though, acting as if nothing had happened to Prompto. For years after losing Erro, Serge had tried to figure out what he could’ve done differently to help his old friend. Erro had obviously been affected by Canidius’ first attack, much in the same way that Prompto was now, turning uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn, but Serge had been too stupid back then to realize what had caused the sudden change in Erro’s disposition. It was maddening to think that all Serge had needed to do at the time was be frank about his observations and ask what the matter was. 

Therefore, it seemed counterintuitive to leave Prompto alone with his thoughts, which was a dangerous place for anyone to find themselves when they felt as though they needed to be on their guard, but Serge kept his mouth shut as they worked their way through Besithia’s convoluted corridors. It was frustrating work having to stop every so often to crack open the locks on the doors, and Serge eventually decided to speed up their progress when he glanced at the Captain’s map and realized they could use the network of catwalks above them to cut a shorter path to their destination. Of course, Tantum had a fear of heights, but Serge knew his friend would push through for their sake, which he did, which meant that Serge found himself an unexpected moment alone with Prompto as their companions made their way across the first catwalk toward the surveillance booth. 

His chest felt swollen all of a sudden, like he was bursting at the seams to tell Prompto that he _knew_ and he was sorry and he would do everything in his power to make sure history wouldn’t repeat itself again...

But something stopped him. It was a sharp pain just beneath his breastbone, a familiar agony he hadn’t suffered in quite some time. So, he just stared at Prompto for a brief moment, taking in his pale face and the quiet desperation in his eyes, that same haunted expression Erro wore the last time Serge ever saw him alive.

Then he thought about what the Captain had said, how this sort of thing was difficult to get out into the open, especially for whoever had been made a victim, and instead of lighting a proverbial flame, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

Prompto looked as though he hadn’t been expecting that kind of question. Maybe he didn’t know that his pain was bleeding out into the open, because he simply glanced over the nearest railing toward the ground as if he thought Serge was asking about his own comfort level with heights and said, “I’m good. Go ahead.”

 _‘And I’m an idiot,’_ Serge thought, deflating. He should’ve started off by saying that Prompto looked off, but the moment to act had already passed. Their companions were already well on their way across the catwalk, and Serge was holding up the rear.

With a sigh, Serge nodded and turned back around. He grabbed onto the railing and made his way steadily across the hangar, wondering if this was really such a good idea when the structure groaned with every step. Honestly, his head wasn’t where it was supposed to be at the moment; they should’ve taken the ground route, which would’ve been infinitely safer.

His regrets doubled when Helena tripped, shaking the whole structure hard enough that Serge nearly toppled over himself. He cursed under his breath as he straightened up again and then completely lost said breath when the catwalk gave out beneath them.

Then he was falling.

And then he was gone.

...

But only for a little while.

After the unexpected fade to black, he woke up with a splitting headache, lying flat on the ground with a part of the catwalk’s railing crushing his chest. Helena was kneeling beside him, trying to push the railing off him as the curative gradually revitalized him. Once his strength returned, he gave the twisted metal a hearty shove and took Helena’s proffered hand to help him to his feet.

A quick glance around showed him that everyone was alive and well.

Except Prompto.

Who was conspicuously missing. 

“Where’s the kid?” he asked, kicking around the fallen debris surrounding him in search of Prompto.

“He didn’t fall,” Helena replied, nodding up at the bit of the catwalk still above them, which was clinging to the wall beside the door to the security booth. “I told him to stay put. We’ll circle back around for him.”

Serge was momentarily dumbfounded. “...You told him to stay in _there_?” He pointed to the security booth. “How’d he make it to the other side so quickly?” 

There was a moment of stunned silence before Wentworth asked, “Can’t the king’s people warp?”

“The Kingsglaive can,” Serge replied. “I don’t know about the Crownsguard. Besides, both Carmine and Lady A said they’ve only ever seen this new king warp, not anyone else in his retinue.”

“Yeah, but this current king is extra special, isn’t he?” Tantum added. “So, his retinue is probably pretty extraordinary, too. I mean, you’ve seen Prompto shoot. It’s like he’s got some sixth sense.”

Maybe that was true...Serge didn’t necessarily like that theory, but he couldn’t think of a more suitable answer. The kid might actually know how to warp in a pinch.

“He’s alive,” Helena interjected, reminding them of what really mattered at the moment. “Now, can we get going? The sooner we leave, the sooner we can regroup.” 

Serge didn’t much like the thought of leaving the kid to fend for himself, but there was literally nothing he could do for Prompto from the ground. Therefore, he begrudgingly dusted off his trousers, armed himself with his SMG, and led them along their original route to the prototypes that Captain Kincaid had requested. 

However, it was a painstakingly long trip, not least of all because Tantum had something of a panic attack along the way. Eventually, the shock of their little incident with the catwalk wore off and the fact that he had very nearly fallen to his death, which had been his greatest fear for about as long as Serge had known him, finally occurred to him. Tantum leaned back against the wall beside yet another locked door, looking a little glossy eyed as the air passed sharp and shallow between his lips.

“It’s alright, mate,” Serge said quietly as he got to work on the bloody lock. He was having a hell of a time keeping a level head himself, but losing it wasn’t going to help anyone. “Deep breaths, yeah? You made it.”

Fortunately, Helena and Wentworth were there to lend a hand with Tantum, helping him collect his wits before they were on the move again. Thirty agonizing minutes later, they reached the final hangar, where Serge asked Helena and Tantum to grab what they needed while he and Wentworth continued on to the security booth, sprinting up the nearest stairwell with their rifles at the ready.

Serge’s heart was in his throat as he kicked the door to the booth wide open and scanned the room for signs of trouble. Fortunately, all that he found was Prompto sitting alone in the corner by one of the control panels. 

The boy looked genuinely surprised by his violent entrance. “...Hi,” he mumbled, baffled.

“Are you alone?” Serge asked, just to make sure. Something still felt very odd about this whole situation.

Slowly, Prompto nodded.

There was a burning question that Serge needed to ask, but Wentworth beat him to the punch as she said. “How did you make it to the other side of the catwalk?”

An alarming array of emotions flashed across Prompto’s face, first confusion, then realization and fear, and finally exhaustion. He looked like he had bad news. And he did. “Well…” he began tentatively, “Ardyn intervened. He’s also the reason the catwalk collapsed in the first place, so the sooner we get out of here, the better, I think.”

“ _Ardyn_?” Serge asked, stunned. The man had a number of hidden talents, but Serge couldn’t see how Izunia would have been able to save the boy from imminent death. More importantly, he didn’t see _why_ Izunia had been bothered to save Prompto at all after assaulting him only the day before. Was this some kind of game to him?

It took Serge a moment to stomp down the rage bubbling up beneath his skin, but he managed to maintain a cool facade as Prompto sighed and said, “It’s hard to explain...Can we talk about this later?” After a glance past Serge and Wentworth, he asked, “Where are Vance and Tantum?”

“Grabbing the prototypes,” Wentworth replied. “We didn’t want to leave you on your own any longer than necessary, although I guess we failed you in that…”

Serge had the sickening realization that he had indeed failed the boy when he promised Prompto that they were going to do everything in their power to help him. Prompto probably thought they were underqualified for the sort of work that they did if they couldn’t even protect _one_ civilian from some diabolical ex-politician that hailed from their home country.

Despite the warning he had already received, Serge couldn’t help but ask a more pointed question, something that might hopefully hint to Prompto that he could tell someone about what really happened to him last night: “Did Ardyn hurt you?” 

“Ardyn’s always been a royal pain,” Prompto muttered, somehow managing to look more exhausted than he already was. However, it didn’t appear as though he got the clue that Serge was referring to more than just what happened in the last half hour.

“Of course,” Serge said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to go for broke here, the Captain’s concerns bedamned. It just felt so incredibly cruel to leave the kid alone with his thoughts at a time like this, right after having to face the man that had assaulted him. “But if you—”

Helena, of course, chose then to burst through the door, Tantum hot on her heels. Both of them were loaded up with far more equipment than Serge had anticipated. It was then that Serge could see through the haze of his anger again, remembering that neither Wentworth nor Helena knew what had transpired between Prompto and Izunia the night before. After everything he had already been through, Prompto didn’t deserve to be put on the spot by Serge’s inquiries.

However, Serge’s concerns for the boy did not abate. They sat like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach on the way back to the outpost. He was dreading his next call with Aranea as he followed Captain Kincaid into the observatory, leaving Tantum to keep an eye on the kid in his absence. What were they supposed to tell the Commodore? Despite the rampant corruption in the upper ranks in Gralea, Aranea’s crew did everything by the book, including reporting the ugliest details of any unfortunate events.

Thankfully, Wedge only informed the Commodore that Prompto had encountered Izunia again and that there was something important concerning the poor kid that they needed to discuss in person.

Serge could practically hear the gears turning in Aranea’s head before she sighed into the radio and said, _“Whatever Ardyn is up to, it’s going to end badly for the kid if we don’t do something about it soon. I want you to take him with you to the second outpost. Leave immediately. You’ll have to spend the night at a haven, but keeping Blondie in motion will hopefully make him a harder target for the Chancellor, at least for now.”_

Which was as good a plan as any and fortunately one that Prompto was on board with. Their companion grabbed his bag and then hopped on a snowmobile with Serge, as he always did, looping his arms around Serge’s waist with ease. Serge wondered if that meant Prompto was comfortable with him, maybe even enough so to consider themselves more than just acquaintances by now? If that was the case, perhaps it wasn’t inconceivable for Prompto to eventually open up to him about what happened.

Serge certainly hoped that would be the case when they finally made camp. He sat close to Tantum during their dinner, using his friend as something of a warm-up by asking him how he was holding up after their fall.

“I still don’t like heights,” Tantum grumbled before he blew on his stroganoff, trying to cool it down, “but I’m alive, so I guess there’s that.”

“I should’ve abandoned the shortcut after we saw how dilapidated the catwalk was,” Serge sighed. “In fact, I shouldn’t have suggested it in the first place. I know you hate heights. I apologize.”

“Time is one of the most valuable things in a mission,” Tantum reminded him, “so don’t feel bad for trying to save us a little. Besides, like I said, we’re all still alive. _And_ , we got everything we came for. I would consider that a success.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Tantum took a moment to glance over his shoulder, then scooted his fold out chair a little closer to Serge’s. Quietly, he said, “I know that you and the Captain are sharing a tent with Argentum tonight. I can tell you’re chomping at the bit to help him, but just remember that this is his fight first before anyone else’s, so he gets to call the shots. You can offer him a shoulder to cry on, just don’t put him on the spot, like the Captain said.”

“I know that,” Serge mumbled, worried that everyone thought he would cock this up somehow.

“Don’t sulk,” Tantum chuckled, elbowing him gently in the arm. “You’re one of the nicest guys I know. You just happen to turn into a complete idiot when you allow your emotions to run away with you.”

“Only ‘one of’ the nicest?” Serge asked, deciding to focus on the positive part of Tantum’s response.

“Captain Callux wins first place,” was Tantum’s immediate response, “but only because he let me sleep off a hangover once instead of reporting me to the Commodore. The man’s a saint.”

“Yeah, I remember that...”

“Anyway, Callux wins because he’s good at keeping people out of trouble. You, on the other hand, are absolutely phenomenal at getting people _into_ trouble.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tantum lifted his mug of cocoa at Serge in a mock salute and winked at him as Serge retreated to his tent. Even if Serge wasn’t physically exhausted at the moment, he felt emotionally drained. It was hard to worry about someone and force yourself to refrain from doing something more substantial to help them.

He tried to fall asleep, because at least asleep he couldn’t do anything stupid, but he ended up lying awake, staring up at the ceiling of the tent when Prompto eventually turned in for the night. Then that lead weight returned to stomach, performing an impressive number of back-to-back flips as Prompto settled down in the darkness beside him, virtually a world away.

Serge was suddenly as nervous as all hell, and he didn’t know why. Someone could aim a cannon at him right now and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. But trying to broach a delicate subject with someone who had been a complete stranger less than a week ago? That was a whole other battlefield, one that he already knew he performed poorly on.

At that point, he almost decided to say nothing at all. He _could_ do that. Wedge, after all, was going to bring Aranea up to speed when they reached her tomorrow, and then together they would decide how to best speak with Prompto on the matter. All Serge really needed to do was watch the kid’s back, which was something he figured he could do properly now that he knew Izunia was gunning for Prompto as hard as he was.

But as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Erro, pale and exhausted, his gaze dropping in defeat as Serge shut down his last attempt at giving a voice to his inner turmoil.

He opened his eyes again.

Steeling himself, he asked, “Are you alright?”

Prompto only settled down about a minute ago, so Serge knew he was still awake. Even so, it took the boy a while to respond. 

“I’ve noticed that you and Kincaid are worried about something,” Prompto said, making it sound as though he was more concerned over what was going on with them rather than himself.

Truth be told, Serge knew the primary problem on Wedge’s mind was the supposed missile Besithia was hiding in the bowels of his facility, which was predominantly why the other man was preoccupied tonight. Wedge was a complete whiz when it came to computers and technology, but diving blind into whatever program was used to launch the Zephyr was a daunting task, made worse by the fact that they didn’t know if Izunia was on to their plan yet.

“...Kind of,” Serge replied, wondering what he should say. Flat out telling the kid that he was aware of his assault was out of the question, so far as Wedge was concerned, but Serge had no idea how to get someone to discuss something they didn’t want to without causing them undo stress. Therefore, his brain sort of failed him as he said, “We almost have everything we came here for, but Izunia’s appearance has complicated matters. We don’t know if he’s here to mess with our plans or yours.”

“He doesn’t seem too concerned with whatever it is you’re doing,” Prompto tried to reassure him. “I mean, he didn’t grill me on what you guys are up to or imply that he wanted you to take a hike. He did, however, mention that he has ‘fond memories’ of you right after he tried to kill you, so who knows what he’s thinking...”

Serge wondered what the hell that meant. While Ardyn had a decent formal relationship with Aranea, they weren’t exactly friends, and Ardyn never paid anyone else in her crew any mind, even Captains Kincaid and Callux. Then again, most of the missions Aranea picked up were delivered to her through the Chancellor, so maybe it was a subtle jab over the amount of control Ardyn imagined he had over their team.

Serge was pulled from his reverie when Prompto then unexpectedly said,“Is it alright if I ask you a personal question?”

As surprised as he was, Serge quickly realized that this could be the opening he was looking for. Trying not to sound too eager, he therefore said, “Yes, but only if I get to ask you a question in return.”

Clearly, Prompto wasn’t prepared for that. It took him a while to say, “Fair enough.”

“What’s your question?” 

There was another stretch of silence, long enough that Serge was half worried that the kid wanted to back out of their deal. However, Prompto finally worked his way up into asking. “How did you get that burn mark on your face?”

To say Serge was blindsided by that question would be an understatement. At first, he wasn’t even sure he’d heard the kid correctly because it came out of literally nowhere. Having lived with the same group of people for the last couple of years, none of whom really drew any attention to the marks on his face, Serge often forgot he even had the deceptively smooth and puckered red scars beside his eye that crept up across his temple. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked him about them.

Gradually, his confusion gave way to something cold and terrible, because while he wasn’t actually embarrassed of the marks, he couldn’t help but wonder if Prompto’s question wasn’t somehow connected to Ardyn’s remark about having ‘fond memories’ of their team. Did that mean Ardyn remembered him _personally_? That seemed fairly incredible considering that Serge could count the number of times Ardyn had spoken to him on one hand, the last being Serge’s transfer to Aranea’s crew, but Ardyn had only spared him a glance then. He’d kept his back turned to Serge for the better part of the meeting.

If Ardyn _had_ told Prompto about one of the worst mistakes of Serge’s life, then for what purpose? Did he want Prompto to feel uncomfortable around Serge and the rest of his team? ...Possibly. And if so, that just meant there was an even bigger barrier for Serge to break through in his mad little quest to offer the boy comfort.

Serge wanted to shake his head. Ardyn had always been a master at pitting people against each other, and he was still up to his old tricks now.

Serge knew there was nothing he could say but the truth—or as close to the truth as he could manage at the moment. If Ardyn hadn’t told the kid all the grisly details yet, Serge didn’t want Prompto to think he went around setting people on fire for a lark.

Backed into a corner, Serge rolled over onto his side so that he could fully face Prompto, even though it was really too dark to see him. “I...got a mite drunk one night,” he began, thinking back to the taste of cheap liquor and how it had numbed the rawness of his knuckles after laying into Canidius as hard as he did. “I don’t usually drink—and I _certainly_ shouldn’t have had anything to drink that night, but I did, and...I was angry, and it put me in the right frame of mind to do something _incredibly_ stupid. Stupid but necessary. It’s...difficult to explain.”

Impossible to explain, in fact.

He could tell that Prompto knew he was short-changing him. A little of Prompto’s irritation bled through into his voice as he then asked, “Were you the only person who got hurt?”

Now Serge _really_ had to wonder what Ardyn told the kid about Canidius.

“...No,” he admitted with some difficulty. Erro had gotten plenty hurt; Canidius hadn’t been hurt _nearly_ enough. “I wasn’t.”

In the silence that followed, Serge could tell that Prompto was waiting for him to elaborate, but Serge knew that this was the extent to which he could share this unfortunate story with Prompto tonight. And the irony was not lost on him; finally, he seemed to realize how much of a struggle it was to discuss these ugly sorts of things.

Eventually, Prompto relented. “What’s your question?”

Honestly, Serge thought the poor kid didn’t deserve to get interrogated any more than he did that night, so he threw in the proverbial towel by sighing and saying, “Nothing, I guess...I mean, it’s hardly fair to ask you anything when I can’t be bothered to give you a straight answer myself.”

When Prompto spoke next, Serge could hear the relief in his voice. “Good night,” he simply said.

It wasn’t a good night, but Serge didn’t say that. He realized that he needed to come up with a better battle plan if he wanted to get through to Prompto. Or maybe he should go back to Plan A and just leave it to Aranea? He was just too woefully unprepared...

But as time stretched on and Prompto’s breaths began to even out, presumably because he was fast asleep or nearly there, Serge decided to give it one last go, just so that he could say he really tried.

“I’m...sorry about Ardyn,” he said. “I know we haven’t been acquainted for very long, but I can tell that you’ve changed since you’ve run into the Chancellor. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he stole your friend from you, or maybe it’s because of this flu that's been bogging you down, but I can tell when all the fight’s gone out of a person...What’s been going on between the two of you?” 

This...actually sounded like a good start, he realized, something he could genuinely say to Prompto when he was awake and lucid. It would allow Prompto to either discuss what was really going on or pretend that he was bothered by something else, while simultaneously letting him know that someone was concerned about him.

Trying to think of what else he could possibly say, Serge continued. “Anyway…I just wanted to let you know that you can talk to me. This war—this _world_ can be an ugly place. I’ve seen people suffer in silence before, and I foolishly did nothing to help them. I don’t want to repeat history.”

Oh, how he wished he had said something like this to Erro sooner…

For a moment there, Serge thought he heard Prompto move. 

“...Are you still awake?” Serge asked, somewhat hopeful.

But Prompto said nothing. He didn’t move anymore either. Or maybe he hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps, it was just wishful thinking on Serge’s part.

With a heavy heart, Serge turned over onto his other side and slowly succumbed to the pull of sleep behind his eyes.

~***~

“There’s something up with Prompto.”

Serge, who was still running high from their fight with the Patria, completely balked at Helena’s remark. She had cornered him in the barracks of the other outpost just as he was contemplating trying to sneak in a nap, her brow furrowed in contemplation rather than anger. That alone clued him into the fact that she was talking about something other than Prompto’s assault, so he relaxed a little and said, “What kind of ‘something’ are we talking about here?”

“After he was knocked over by that Patria, it should’ve turned him into mincemeat,” she said. “You were trying to turn your bike around at the time, so I’m not sure if you saw it, but it was as if there was something in the air hovering above the kid. Only momentarily, mind you, but it was a sliver of light, kind of like how the sun glances off the surface of the water at the right angle. I think the Patria abandoned its attack because it couldn’t see him then.”

Serge tried to picture what she was talking about, but he couldn’t think of an easy explanation for a sudden burst of light in the middle of that field. It was actually pretty bleak outside, overcast like it usually was back in Gralea. “Do you think he has some kind of talisman?” Serge offered up as an explanation. “You’d be surprised what kind of weird equipment you can find in a dungeon.”

“Possibly,” she replied, although there was a hint of something in her voice that sounded like doubt.

This intrigued him. “...Do you think something _else_ is going on?”

Helena shrugged. “I was just talking to Tantum, was all.”

Ah…

Serge could see where this was going.

“Tantum still thinks the kid means something to the gods, does he?” Serge asked.

“Maybe,” she replied. “At the very least, they’ve decided to be kind to him, don’t you think?”

Biting his tongue, Serge thought about how it was really quite the opposite. Assuming the gods were watching over Prompto, then that meant they had sent him to this cold and desolate place knowing full well that he would be abused by Ardyn. How could _that_ be considered a kindness? Or had they simply abandoned Prompto when was raped?

Had they abandoned Erro, too, when he died?

“I think…” Serge began, trying to choose his words carefully. “I think that maybe Prompto’s suffered more than most. He lost his best friend recently, and now he’s trapped in this tundra playing cat and mouse with Izunia. If the gods fancy him, they have a weird way of showing it.”

Helena shrugged, like she wasn’t completely convinced of their indifference. “We all suffer, don’t we? And maybe Prompto is suffering more than most right now, but I don’t think the gods asked Izunia to make his life a living hell. That man is solely responsible for the pain he causes anyone.”

Maybe she was right, but Serge was feeling a little too bitter to simply agree. Too irritated to sleep either, so he grabbed his coat and popped outside for a bit of fresh air, thinking about the cigarette tucked away in his breast pocket. It was the last one on him, and he needed it desperately now for his nerves, although Aranea had a sixth sense when it came to this sort of thing, so who knew how long he would be able to savor it?

But Aranea was occupied with Prompto at the moment, having the difficult sort of conversation that Serge was glad not to be a part of. 

Balancing the cigarette between his teeth, Serge pulled out his little packet of matches and lit the end. He had no idea what the issue was that so many people seemed to have with smoking. Yeah, it could kill you, but he was more likely to die in the battlefield, honestly. Why couldn’t he have just this one vice?

A short ways into his internal philosophical debate on a person’s rights to lung cancer, Serge found himself rudely interrupted by a loud bang as the door beside him swung violently open. For a hot second, he thought Aranea had somehow gotten a whiff of the smoke, but then the body that had propelled itself through the door landed hard on the newly fallen snow beside him, dead quiet and entirely unmoving, like maybe they had died.

As the door swung shut again, Serge tentatively leaned over his fallen companion to get a better look at them. As soon as he realized it was Prompto, he scrambled to pull the boy upright again, dragging his scrawny ass off to the wall so that he could sit propped up against it.

Just as Serge was about to run inside to find someone to help, Prompto stirred. Worried, Serge slowly sat down on the snow beside him, pulling out the cigarette still perched between his lips to let out a puff of smoke. Then he gently pressed his hand between the kid’s shoulder blades and tried to rock him awake. “You back with me, mate?”

Prompto groaned and opened his eyes.

Crossing one leg over the other, Serge sighed in relief and said, “You scared the hell out of me... You slammed that door so hard against the wall, I thought Lady A found out I was smoking again. Granted, watching you face plant like that was also pretty terrifying. I swear to the gods, I thought you died...”

“I’m sorry,” Prompto mumbled, still looking a little dazed.

“Don’t be. Like I said before, I can tell that you’ve been stressed out about something.” He imagined that the conversation with the Commodore hadn’t gone well, but maybe something else had frightened the kid. “Do you mind if I ask what scared you out into the bloody cold?”

Prompto took a deep, shuddering breath, like maybe he was about to cry. “Aranea, she...asked about Ardyn.”

Ah.

So,...it appeared then that Prompto was running away from the conversation itself, which Serge took to mean that he probably hadn’t covered the godawful bit yet.

Serge could feel his rage simmering beneath the surface of his skin again. Fuck Ardyn. _Really,_ fuck him for hurting Prompto in such a way that he felt the need to suffer in silence...

But since the last thing Prompto needed to deal with right then was someone else’s feelings on the matter, Serge took a moment to remind himself of his place in all of this, sighed, and said, “Oh. Well...you don’t need to talk to anyone about Ardyn, mate.”

He wasn’t sure what it was about his response, but Prompto just took one look at him then and burst into tears. And Serge wasn’t even sure if it was the cathartic or the bad kind. The kid just flat out lost it, burying his face in his hands like he’d reached the absolute limit of everything.

Feeling more than a mite bad for triggering the waterworks, Serge patted the kid on the back and waited there with him as Prompto struggled to breath again. Maybe, he thought, this was it. Maybe _this_ was the moment where Serge could finally get through to him.

And he thought he knew just how.

Feeling his throat tightening up with nerves, Serge said, “When I was stationed at the palace, I used to work with this new recruit…” Well, Erro hadn’t been a recruit for a while, actually, but at a time when the military wasn’t interested in hiring too many human beings, Erro had been the ‘newest’ recruit for a very long time. “He was awfully kind…probably one the few people who could genuinely brighten up that godforsaken place. It often seemed like there was nothing in our dismal little corner of the world that could bring him down.”

Truly, Erro’s good humor was unshakable most days. He smiled almost all the time, even when he wasn’t supposed to, although Serge hadn’t thought back on his smiling face in so many years. It just felt like every time he allowed his mind to wander in that direction, it ended up back in the morgue where Erro had lain, his light long since snuffed out.

“But after a while, you could see him losing his grip on his happiness,” Serge continued, thinking then of the days leading up to his death, of Erro’s gradual withdrawal from everything that was going on around him and his growing desperation to leave before it was too late. Serge couldn’t let that happen again, not with Prompto. “I’m telling you about him because right before he left the military he was murdered, and I swear, if I regret anything in this life, it’s that I didn’t talk to him sooner. Maybe then I would’ve known someone had been assaulting him. Maybe then I would’ve known the danger that he was in. Maybe then, well...I…”

Maybe then he could’ve saved him.

It felt like something was crushing the air out of his lungs. This was supposed to be an opportunity for Prompto to open up and let it all out, but Serge had unwittingly thrown a little salt on the gaping wound inside himself instead. _Gods,_ he was horrible at this sort of thing...He probably should’ve seen a therapist about this ages ago.

And it turned out that he had only made matters worse, because Prompto started to cry again, harder than the first time. He looked so small and young sitting there in snow. And fragile, like maybe Ardyn had broken him beyond repair. He was just another tragedy in the making.

Just like Erro.

“I’m sorry,” Serge whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting then, but it wasn’t that Prompto would gradually wind himself down and look up at Serge as though a veil had finally been lifted from his eyes. It was then with great difficulty that Prompto said, “After Ardyn cornered me in Verstael’s dining room, he knocked me out. Then he…”

Serge wanted to say that he knew what happened, but interrupting Prompto now felt like an unforgivable sin, so he sat there and waited as the kid cleared his throat before beginning again: “Then he took me to the bedroom, and when I woke up, he was...he was already inside me, and it—it was _horrible_ …”

And then Prompto cried yet again, although a little softer this time, like he was almost glad to have it out there. So, Serge slung his arm around the kid’s shoulder and held him there, feeling as though something had changed, as though maybe history wasn’t going to repeat itself after all.

As though maybe he wasn’t going to lose another friend.

~***~

But he was a fool.

He didn’t realize it at first, but only because he didn’t know how to decipher the cacophony of noise on the other side of the door. None of them did. One second, they had reached what they belatedly realized was a dead end, miserable in their acceptance that this was the grand finale, but then the thuds of the metal fists hammering against the door were gradually replaced with the sound of gunfire, a series of sharp cracks that cut through the cloud of their desperation.

It took them far too long to un-barricade the door. Aranea, for once in her life, looked absolutely terrified because she knew as well as any of them that if their companions had swooped in to their rescue that they would be dead soon. Yet, the war raged on uninterrupted outside. Clearly, something dangerous had wandered upon the MTs and was now giving them hell, although Serge knew that it was still a little too early for the daemons to appear. 

With no small amount of effort, they finally pulled the door open and climbed the mountain of magitek husks huddled in the threshold. The view beyond was absolute carnage, a mess of fire and molten metal and the cloying stench of burnt oil. Serge coughed when he got a good whiff of the fumes, stumbling over the fallen MTs as he tried to keep his eyes peeled for whatever had intervened on their behalf, knowing there was a good chance that they might have to fight it next.

Working his way around a fallen Patria, it was then that he found his answer.

Chancellor Ardyn Izunia stood amongst the wreckage like the harbinger of chaos that he was, smiling widely as he took in the scene. The broadsword in his hand vanished into thin air as he turned to his sole human companion and said something softly to him.

That person just happened to be Prompto. 

The kid stood there with his revolver in his hand, looking mildly overwhelmed, as if even _he_ hadn’t anticipated the amount of damage they could cause together. He didn’t move as Ardyn took a step closer to him, either unaware of how close he still was to danger or too exhausted to deal with the other man after their recent battle.

So, Serge decided to deal with Ardyn for him.

He lifted his SMG, bracing himself as he took aim. Through the sight, he could see Ardyn’s eyes dart in his direction, still smiling, as if this was all just a game to him.

Maybe it was.

Just as Serge was about to pull the trigger, his gun was jerked violently to one side, hard enough that he lost his grip on it entirely. As it came crashing down to the ground by his feet, he noticed that the barrel was a few inches shorter than it was a second ago, cleaved off by a solitary bullet. He’d never seen anything of the sort before.

Wondering where the hell that shot came from, he looked up and around himself. His gaze fell almost immediately on Prompto, who was only just now lowering his revolver, eyes wide and afraid, the same way they’d been when he nearly gutted Serge a few days ago. 

Of course, of all the people Serge had ever worked with, Prompto was really the only person he could think of that could pull off a trick like that. The kid’s aim was really something else. However, Serge didn’t blame him for taking the shot. After all, he still looked pretty out of it, like he was beginning to crash after a spiraling high.

“Run mate,” Serge said, loud and clear, as he nodded his head toward the nearest exit. He didn’t know how these next few seconds were going to play out, but he couldn’t allow this to end with Prompto in Ardyn’s clutches.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto breathed, obviously still in disbelief over his own knee-jerk reaction.

“No need to apologize,” Ardyn interjected, pretending that the apology was for him. He patted Prompto on the shoulder as he stepped past and around the boy, partially obstructing Serge’s view of Prompto. “You were only doing your duty, dearest.”

...

_‘Dearest.’_

Something warm and noisome turned over in Serge’s stomach. The situation they were in now went far beyond his worst nightmares, because here stood the kid that Serge had sworn to protect, and because here, too, stoid the monster that Serge was supposed to be protecting him from. He felt as though fate was thumbing its nose at him right then, blatantly denying him the opportunity to make up for his past mistakes.

Serge’s reflexes directed his hand to the gun that was still in his hip holster before he knew what he was doing. He had only one chance to get a shot in here, assuming Ardyn didn’t command the poor kid to stop him again. Just one chance to get Prompto away from that monster, because Serge _knew_ that if the boy was forced to leave with Ardyn, then that would be the last anyone ever saw of him again.

However, just as he drew his gun, a hand grazed his right elbow, drawing his attention to Aranea. “Take it easy,” she muttered to him.

Serge didn’t know how she expected him to do that. This was one of those horrifying moments where one wrong move could change everything. Backing down, for example, could only spell disaster.

Backing down was _not_ an option.

Yet, as he tried to gauge the scene and tally up his options, of which there were few, the gun weighing heavy in his hand, something changed in Ardyn’s eyes. The other man hummed softly to himself, as if he had stumbled across a delightful surprise, and said, “Ah, yes, I _do_ remember you. You’re the guard who—”

Serge didn’t hear the end of that sentence over the sudden rushing sound in his ears. If Ardyn knew him, then he probably remembered Erro and Canidius as well, and it probably fucking amused him to see the similiarity in what he was doing to Prompto.

It had been such a very long time since Serge had last pulled the trigger on someone he wanted to see dead.

But Aranea knew him too well. She yanked his arm back down before he could fully raise it, and then she stepped smoothly in front of him, facing Ardyn as she said, “Izunia, just let the kid go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Ardyn replied.

 _‘Yes, you bloody well can,’_ Serge thought, still itching to bury a lead weight in the other man’s face.

“You see,” Ardyn continued, half-heartedly lifting a finger to gesture vaguely toward the door, “he’s only here to afford _you_ the opportunity to leave.”

Serge looked over at Prompto, who was watching Ardyn warily, frozen in place, like he knew that this was about to end badly, most likely for himself. However, Prompto probably knew that before he made his deal with Ardyn to spare them; he still went through with it anyway.

Serge had to wonder how many other tough calls Prompto had to make since embarking on this quest to save the world alongside the King of Kings and how many other sacrifices he would be expected to make to satisfy the gods. 

“You have twenty minutes to vacate the premises, Commodore,” Ardyn continued. “I will call off any attacks until then.”

“I’m _not_ leaving without him,” Aranea snapped, beating Serge to the punch. “I know you like a good deal, so let’s negotiate—”

“I’ve already negotiated,” Ardyn replied. His ever-present smile turned downright lecherous as he rounded on Prompto, “And I’m _quite_ satisfied with how that turned out.”

 _‘No,’_ Serge thought, knowing full well that this was it, the point of no return.

But even as he lifted his arm to take his shot, Aranea’s efforts bedamned, he could tell that he was too late. Where Ardyn once stood, there was now a faint, mauve imprint of light, the mocking afterimage of the man as he fled into the great unknown.

But not without taking Prompto with him.

Serge scanned the chaos around him, trying to figure out where they had gone. Aranea had updated everyone about Ardyn’s strange abilities before they headed down to the facility that day, but if Ardyn could warp, then that meant that he had to have somewhere in his line of sight to warp to, didn’t he?

“We need to get out of here,” Grant said, suddenly at his side, staring down at the time on his wristwatch. “At this rate, we might not make it back to the outpost before the daemons arrive.”

Serge rounded him, livid. “One of our people was just kidnapped and you want to _run_?!”

“I’m not any happier than you are about this,” Grant said quietly, “but they went there.” He pointed at a broken window high up in the rafters, which Serge assumed belonged to a security booth. “I don’t know how we’re going to get up there in time.”

“We’re not,” Aranea said sternly, “And Ardyn isn’t just going to sit up there all night, so there’s no point in running after him. We need to leave.”

“We _can’t,_ ” Serge snapped.

“I’m not taking a fucking vote right now,” Aranea replied.

“He’s going to kill Prompto!”

“Now, he won’t,” she growled as she took a step closer to him, leaning up into his face, which was her usual form of a courtesy warning before she punched someone’s lights out. “Hurt him? Possibly. He’s a bastard, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he did, but he’s had several opportunities to kill the kid already and hasn’t acted on any of them yet. That means we have time to come up with an extraction plan.”

He could see the sense in what she was saying—he really could—but his heart was racing and his head was spinning and he felt the cold clench of regret like a vice around his stomach. It didn’t feel right to leave Prompto alone and defenseless with a man like that, especially knowing all the terrible little things Ardyn enjoyed doing to him.

“We’re not having this conversation right now,” Helena snapped suddenly as she grabbed Serge by the elbow, yanking him toward the door and nearly tripping him over a fallen magitek soldier in the process. “Tonight is _not_ going to end with casualties, do you understand me?”

As much as Serge was rearing for a fight right then, he wasn’t about to come to blows with his cousin. And she knew that, which is why she gave him another hearty tug when he tried to twist his arm free, dragging him a good distance to the door before he relented and fell in pace behind her.

The vice inside him tightened more the further they travelled from the hangar, reaching a nauseating level when they finally stepped outside and broke the chains locking a nearby shed storing a few snowmobiles. Then, as the sky began its rapid declension into darkness, they rode their way up the mountainside like madmen toward the outpost.

By some miracle of the gods, Captain Kincaid and the others made it back before them, relatively unscathed. Aranea immediately jumped off her vehicle and jogged over to Wedge to discuss something with him urgently as Helena gingerly lifted herself off the bike that she rode with Serge. She looked drained, literally dragging her feet as she made her way to the outer door of the outpost. He knew she was probably in shock over their near-death experience.

If he were being honest with himself, Serge was also in shock. They had lost Prompto. And if Ardyn wasn’t going to kill the kid tonight, Serge had a pretty good idea what else the bastard planned on doing with him. The way he had looked at Prompto before they vanished, the same way Canidius would occasionally look at anyone who was easy on the eyes, spoke volumes of the sort of man Izunia really was.

Still sitting astride his vehicle, Serge glanced up at the heavens. There was a small break in the clouds, the brightest of the night’s stars already twinkling as the day came to a close. When he stared past that blessed sight into the darkest corner of his mind, it conjured imaginary visions of bodies in conflict, one trying to fight as the other fucked. At first, it was Erro and Canidius. Then, it was Prompto and Ardyn.

Serge revved up the engine.

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” Aranea shouted, whipping her head around in his direction.

Serge glanced over at her, momentarily faltering, not knowing what to say. He didn’t have a plan, but he couldn’t just sit there and do _nothing_ , not while Promto suffered. The kid didn’t deserve it.

Throwing her an apologetic look, Serge whipped his head back around, ready to fly off down the mountainside—but he flinched when he realized Tantum was suddenly standing right beside his bike, wearing an expression that was somewhere between regret and supreme annoyance. In his hands he held some spare part from their ship that Serge didn’t quite recognize. In fact, the only thing he really knew about it was that it was long and sturdy.

And that it hurt like an absolute _bitch_ when it slammed into the side of his face.

~***~

He woke up in the barracks with his right hand cuffed to the corner of his bunk.

Aranea was sitting on the bed beside him, a potion bottle disintegrating in her hand. “Hey there, sunshine,” she muttered.

For the first few seconds, Serge couldn’t remember what happened. Then it came to him, in bits and pieces, until he could recall how he’d almost returned to the facility at the very start of the night. In no uncertain terms, he would be dead right now if he had managed to slip away before Tantum intervened.

“...I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Apology accepted.”

“I’m a moron,” he added.

“I’m glad you realize that, but I’m not uncuffing you.”

...Fuck.

Serge exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s...fair.”

“Damn straight it is,” Aranea grumbled. Then she closed her eyes and rubbed her face, like she was tired beyond belief. “Look...our airship is almost repaired. When Captain Morse arrives tomorrow with his own ship, I’m sending just about everyone back to Gralea with him immediately. _I,_ however, will be sticking around to get the kid back.” 

Serge licked his lips, hoping she didn’t think he was too much of an idiot to lend her a hand. “...Can I help?” he asked tentatively, hopeful. 

Lowering her hands to her lap, she stared at him and sighed. “I’ll be honest with you. Ardyn is unlike _anything_ you’ve ever gone up against before. Cor the Immortal? He’s a walk in the park compared to this guy, so don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that Prompto saved us from imminent death yesterday, and _not_ just from the horde of MTs. If you stay behind tomorrow, there’s a very good chance it’ll be your last day on Eos.”

Licking his lips again, Serge thought about what that would mean. He knew that everyone on his team would miss him if he died. Helena would curse every atom of his being, but she would probably miss him most of all. They grew up together, fought side by side together, and knew right off the bat that joining Aranea’s team meant that they would probably die together, too. She might feel a little cheated if he left this world before her, but they would be reunited someday in the great ever-after that she so often dreamed of.

And it was that last bit that made Serge’s response so easy, this notion of ‘togetherness’. If Serge survived, he would have the pleasure of staying a while longer with the people that meant the most to him. 

If he died, then...well, he would be reunited with someone else who meant an awful lot to him.

“I know,” Serge said quietly.

Aranea sighed again, like she was afraid he was going to say that. 

“Well,” she said as she rose to her feet, “if that’s the case, then try to sleep. I’m going to need your head in a better place tomorrow than it was today if we’re going to pull this off.”

“You already have a plan?” he asked, somewhat hopeful. Even if it was dangerous, he didn’t care. 

“A half-baked one,” Aranea grumbled, “but it’s something. Maybe I’ll come up with a better plan in the morning...We’ll see.”

Serge took a deep breath and slowly released it as Aranea made her way to the door, off to see how the last of the repairs to her airship were going. Even if she didn’t sound entirely confident about tomorrow, Serge had rarely seen her plans go off the rails. She knew how to fight to win. Even if Serge didn’t make it through the day, she would find a way to remove Prompto from Ardyn’s clutches.

Trying to reassure himself that they were not, in fact, beyond the point of no return, Serge closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It wasn’t an easy feat, but his mind soon began to drift, dancing along a chain of nonsensical thoughts and feelings.

And then soon enough he was out entirely.

~***~

He woke a second time to the sensation of someone removing his cuffs.

Upon opening his eyes, Serge found Captain Kincaid leaning over him, looking grim.

“If you’re having second thoughts, now’s the time to let us know,” the Captain said, “because we can’t guarantee that you’ll leave this place alive.” 

Serge sat up slowly, rubbing his sore wrist. 

Then quietly, he said, “So be it.”

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR: There's a lot of guilt going around in Aranea's crew, both because of how they failed to help their friend Erro before his death and because of how they willingly participated in Aldercapt's war. It's for both of these reasons that they feel the need to redeem themselves by helping Prompto, who they see as the symbol of hope that the gods intended him to be, although Serge moreso than the others since he was the last person that Erro reached out to for help before his death. 
> 
> A/N: Anyway, once again, I apologize for taking forever and a day to complete this chapter. Next up, we finally get to see how Prompto's plan plays out against Ardyn...


	14. A fond farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Are you guys ready for some angry Ardyn, because I know I'm not! :D

~***~

Pre-Noctis, Prompto didn’t function very well under pressure.

That’s not to say he has nerves of steel now, of course. Even at the start of his career as a member of the Crownsguard, he was a bit jumpy, although he likes to think he’s progressed quite a bit from all the screaming and flailing around he used to do mid-battle. After all, he’s gone toe-to-toe with some of the biggest, baddest magitchnology and daemons in Eos and come out the other side alright, so he knows not to immediately assume a battle is lost before it’s even begun. 

Even so, Serge’s dramatic entrance gets his heart pumping like nothing else ever could.

It takes Prompto a moment to regain his composure, but even then he’s not sure how to get everyone back on track. Clearing his throat, he says, “Okay...well...as we were—”

“Just a moment, darling,” Ardyn interjects, finally interested enough in the proceedings that he takes a few steps closer to their little group, his lips twisted in a smirk. “Our guest looks like he has something that he would very much like to say. Maybe we should let him have the floor first?”

Serge opens his mouth to speak, but Aranea cuts him off quickly. “He has _nothing_ to add to this conversation. Believe me.”

“Don’t be unkind,” Ardyn chides her, looking more amused with every passing second. “When a man stands before Death, his last words hold more weight than anything else he could have ever uttered in his lifetime.”

“Maybe I’m just here to watch the show,” Serge says, his tone of voice deceptively calm considering the fiery look in his eyes. 

“Oh, but you are _every_ bit a part of the spectacle,” Ardyn replies. Then his gaze slides over to Prompto, “But before we begin, can you tell me something, dearest? Do you know what _that_ —” He twists halfway around to point directly at Zephyr, it’s chromatic panels gleaming in the spotlight just on the other side of the reinforced glass “—is intended for?”

Prompto swears that the desert surrounding Hammerhead is nowhere near as dry as his mouth is right now. He swallows, trying to stimulate _something_ to produce more saliva, though he only manages to make a little before he quietly says, “Um…Gralea?”

“ _Bravo_ ,” Ardyn breathes in the quietest, cruelest sound of delight. “Since you’ve already gleaned where it’s going, I assume you already understand _why_ Gralea must perish?”

“It doesn’t _have_ to,” Prompto replies, emboldened by the sudden fierce lick of anger in his heart. For a moment, his fear pales in comparison to his ire and all he can think about is how phenomenally _petty_ this whole situation is considering the power Ardyn holds in the palm of his grimy hands. “I know you’re pissed off that the gods apparently favored your brother for burning all those people, but following in his footsteps isn’t going to change anything.”

Prompto doesn’t know if he struck a cord there, but Ardyn’s amusement sort of...flattens. Not with shame or guilt, only disappointment, like he doesn’t think Prompto should have an opinion on this matter that doesn’t align with his own.

“They are the _enemy,_ ” Ardyn explains as his cold and apathetic gaze passes briefly over Aranea and Serge. “Niflheim is largely defined by the endless war it waged against the rest of the world, one its soldiers willingly participated in. It’s only now, after the capital of your beloved country has already been razed to the ground, that a handful of its people decide to lend you a hand— _if_ you can bring yourself to believe that. In reality, none of these people care about you, and therefore none of them deserve your compassion, my dear.”

Honestly, what he _can’t_ believe is that Ardyn is still trying to push the idea that Aranea and her crew are somehow undeserving of Prompto’s trust. “They’re here to stop you,” he bites back. “That says an awful lot about them, too.”

“But is that _really_ why they came to this dismal place?” Ardyn posits, head cocked to one side, as if he can hardly believe Prompti’s naivety. “Here I thought it was to loot the facility for Verstael’s more valuable prototypes, just your usual sort of post-war malfeasance...”

Well... _technically_ , yes, they came here for the prototypes, but it wasn’t as if Aranea hadn’t told Prompto that from the onset. Besides, she wasn’t even here to steal them for herself. 

“The weapons are for everyone,” Prompto argues. “Cor Leonis—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Ardyn says bluntly, following this up with a small chuckle. “Do you know for a fact that it was the Marshal who orchestrated this little mission, my dear? Isn’t it a little _odd_ then that he would make no effort to reach out to you, a direct member of his team?”

Prompto...well, he _doesn’t_ have an answer to that precise question, and he knows his silence is damning. Ardyn obviously knows how suspicious this looks, given his condescending smile, but really? Shame on Prompto for not reaching out to his own superior to inform Cor that he was going to travel back to hell-on-Eos and determine what was really going on here. Not that he actually doubts Aranea’s story about working for the Marshal, but Prompto knows when to admit that he’s flubbed up.

“Cor sent us alright,” Aranea finally intervenes, sounding more than just a mite pissed by Ardyn’s accusations. “Say what you want, but the kid knows well enough by now that his trust isn’t misplaced in us.”

“You _would_ say that,” Ardyn replies rather drily. “Though really, I’m curious to know how you succeeded in spinning the idea that the Marshal requires a _missile_ of all things for his arsenal.”

“To keep it out of your hands, of course. Or those of any of the other psychopaths Aldercapt kept in close company.”

“I see. And you’re _certain_ it’s Cor Leonis that you work for and not, let’s say, one of these other so-called ‘psychopaths’?”

Watching this conversation continue its winding descent into utter madness, Prompto coughs uncomfortably into his fist and says, “I can really only go by what I know, and what I know _right now_ is that you’re the only person here trying to use the missile, so...”

“I never claimed otherwise,” Ardyn replies, “but please do not assume that my ill-will for Niflheim and the Commodore’s duplicity are mutually exclusive. I’ve warned you on more than one occasion that she and her crew are not the sort of people you should entangle yourself with, have I not?”

“Yes, but—”

“They are as violent as I am,” he continued. “How else do you imagine we worked so well together? The Commodore said so herself, we were once close colleagues. We see eye to eye on many things. Why do you think she had no trouble at all bringing herself to aid you, the enemy of the Empire, upon my request at the Vesperpool?”

Admittedly, that had been a little odd...Of course, Aranea had always given off the vibe that she only did what she did for money rather than any loyalty to the Empire, which is why their first and only battle against each other ended as abruptly as it did, supposedly the second she was no longer ‘on the clock’. Just as Gladio had said, she was a mercenary and a businesswoman first before anything else, which meant that being cutthroat was just a part of her nature. 

So, yeah, maybe Prompto can’t help but wonder how she and Ardyn managed to get along so well prior to her defection, but he’s still not about to scrutinize her motives here. She helped him when she didn’t need to the first time they came to this facility, even going so far as to remind him of his worth to Noctis and the others. The fact that she continued to be so kind despite her apparent ‘violent’ nature spoke volumes to him.

“I think wartime can bring out the worst in all of us,” Prompto replies. “At their core, I don’t believe the Nifs are bad people.”

Of course, Ardyn is one of those immovable objects, the sort of person who doesn’t bow to anyone’s logic but his own, which is why the way he clicks his tongue at Prompto in admonition doesn’t come as a surprise. “You don’t know them like I do,” he says, which is also to be expected, although he _does_ manage to catch Prompto on his back foot when he then asks, “Did you ever inquire about the burning man?”

... _Yes_ ? But, also, not really? At least, Prompto vaguely remembers asking Serge about the burn mark on his face, but that was as close as he could bring himself to ask if he or anyone else on Aranea’s team had tried to kill someone in an unorthodox way. It wasn’t exactly the easiest topic to broach in casual conversation, especially when Prompto’s head hadn’t been in the best place for _any_ sort of conversation these past few days. 

“Well…” Prompto mumbles, glancing over at his companions, expecting at least one of them to have yet another biting retort for Ardyn’s insinuations. However, when he looks at Serge, he sees that the color has suddenly drained from the other man’s face. He’s gone as white as a sheet, like Ardyn managed to stir up some horrifying memory that Serge had almost allowed himself to forget.

Aranea doesn’t look quite as bad, but only by a small margin. She has this somewhat pained expression on her face, like she knew this moment was going to come back to bite her someday.

“...What’s this whole thing about a burning man?” Prompto finally finds it in himself to ask, unable to resist how _badly_ he suddenly needs to know. 

Serge exhales slowly, like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. “It was...an accident.”

“...Is this somehow related to the story behind the mark on your face?”

“Yes.”

Prompto suddenly gets a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, like maybe he isn’t going to like the direction that this is going. “I thought you said that whatever you did was ‘necessary'.”

“Caught in a lie so soon?” Ardyn muses aloud, sounding undeniably pleased.

“ ‘Necessary’ doesn’t quite mean ‘intentional _’_ ,” Serge grits out, a bit of the color returning to his face as his temper flares. 

“Your mental gymnastics are astonishing.”

If looks could kill, Serge would’ve slain Ardyn where he stood, but somehow he manages to soften the look when he turns to Prompto and says, “I told you before that it was difficult to explain. I—”

“—should describe the situation to him all the same,” Ardyn interjects, taking a few steps closer. “Personally, I think the details speak for themselves, but perhaps you can somehow convince our friend here that your actions weren’t _quite_ as barbaric as you remember.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to anyone,” Serge snaps.

“Behold, my dear!” Ardyn says, looking at Prompto as he throws an arm theatrically toward their companion. “ _This_ is a son of Niflheim, a man of many actions but few words, one who does not see the _need_ to justify why he would light one of his colleagues on fire. _This_ , too, represents the people you want to save, the people who lauded your father’s atrocities and advocated for the war that ravaged your home.”

Personally, Prompto’s not about to condemn a whole country for one man’s flaws, but he knows this doesn’t look great for convincing Ardyn not to nuke Gralea. Therefore, he looks Serge in the eye and calmly says, “It’s okay, you know. You can tell me.”

The emotions on Serge’s face fluctuate rapidly between anger and panic and grief. Prompto understands those feelings all too well, like being backed into a corner and having to give a voice to the secret that you think no one has any right of knowing, which is why he doesn’t say anything beyond that. He merely stands there patiently, hoping Serge can see how very little interest Prompto has in judging him here.

Eventually, the expression on Serge’s face softens again. Something passes behind his eyes, some sacred thought that helps him to reign his emotions in again..

Prompto wonders if he’s thinking of his late friend.

“Tell him,”Ardyn says, urging him on, “and if you manage not to lie, I will let the Commodore walk away from this disaster with her life.”

“ _Hey now_ ,” Aranea snaps, “I don’t need—”

“—Alright,” Serge quickly says, obviously aware that she would much rather barter for his freedom than her own. He glances over at Aranea, wordlessly beseeching her to let him do this. 

Aranea looks as though she has some choice words for Ardyn, but she clearly has an easier time reigning her own temper in because she finally sighs and returns Serge’s stare. She’s still obviously irked, but after having worked with politicians for so many years, she probably knows when to cede the floor over putting her fist through someone’s face. 

Once whatever unspoken conversation has passed between them, Serge turns back to Prompto and, with some difficulty, says. “Year ago, I almost killed one of my superior officers, a man named Canidius. He...raped and murdered our friend Erro, then tried to cover up the crime by attempting to have Erro’s body cremated.”

“Is that where the idea for the ‘fire’ originated?” Ardyn inquires, looking thrilled by the possible connection. “The punishment needs to fit the crime somehow, I suppose...”

“Like I said,” Serge grits out, sparing a moment to glare at Ardyn before he resumes his story, “the fire wasn’t intentional. It was an accident.”

“Tying a man to a chair and dosing him in alcohol does not normally happen by accident.”

It’s hard not to admit that this paints a pretty bad picture for Serge and his fellow Nifs, one that honestly has Prompto wondering how people are normally sentenced for their crimes in Niflheim. Was the death penalty still a thing in Gralae? Prompto vaguely recalls reading that somewhere in a textbook back in the eighth grade...

“I wasn’t the one who tied him to a chair,” Serge argues. “Nor did I dose him in alcohol.”

Ardyn quirks an eyebrow at him, as if he can hardly believe that this is his defense. “But you _did_ partake of the beating, if I’m not mistaken. In fact, even though the people who wanted to see Canidius dead were numerous, _you_ were somehow one of the few chosen to air your grievances to him with your fists. I think that says something about your character, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not letting me _explain_ —”

“Oh, my apologies!” Ardyn holds his right hand up in the mockery of a request for pardon, feigning a look of chastisement. “ _Please_ , enlighten us on why you and the others felt the need to take the law into your own hands.”

“Because Canidius was going to flee to Tenebrae,” Serge says quickly, tired of the interruptions, “and because he had connections there, the kind that could keep him from being sent back to Gralea to face judgement. One of my colleagues somehow orchestrated his capture. He...” Serge pauses a moment here and sighs. He looks tired again, like he’s sick of reliving this moment in his life. “He had Candius tied to a chair in a warehouse one night and, knowing that I was one of Erro’s closest friends, invited me along to...to take out my frustrations on him.”

“...To what end?” Ardyn quietly asks, as if this was the moment he was waiting for. 

Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, Serge doesn’t immediately have anything to say to that. It takes him a while to come up with an answer, speaking slowly and carefully, like maybe he’s spent years pondering that very question. “I don’t know, honestly… Some of the people there wanted him dead. Others just wanted him to beat him badly enough that he wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. At the time, I couldn’t decide which fate I really preferred for him.”

“You mean to say you _couldn’t_ decide if the man who had subjected your friend to excruciating pain before taking his life deserved to die?” Ardyn clarifies.

“Oh, he absolutely _deserved_ to lose his life in the worst way possible,” Serge replies, a little of the steel returning to his voice. However, it softens yet again as he turns back to Prompto. Serge stares at him long and hard before he says, “But Erro wouldn’t have wanted that. He believed that we really had no right to decide who lived or died. And so, when I lit a match for my cigarette and thought how easily I could’ve subjected Canidius to a fate worse than Erro’s, I couldn’t go through with it. The only reason Canidius caught fire that night was because the match was knocked from my hand.”

There’s a soft sound of amusement from Ardyn before he says, “Or so the record goes…”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Serge continues, still staring down at Prompto. “And, yeah, I understand that this makes it look like Niflheim is some godless place—which, _believe me_ , it really is in some ways—but it still produced people like Erro, who was loving and kind…” He pauses here to return his attention to Ardyn, momentarily weighing the other man with his eyes before he says, “...and exactly the kind of person who would refuse to help anyone on their personal little war against the King of Lucis, despite whatever it is you tried to offer him.”

Prompto doesn’t know how much of a sore spot Serge touched upon with that remark, but the fact that Ardyn no longer looks amused means that he’s at least stirred an uncomfortable memory for the other man. From what Promoto understands of Ardyn, he probably doesn’t much like people who don’t allow themselves to be manipulated, such as this Erro fellow that so many of Aranea’s people seemed to adore.

“And while I’ve heard the reasoning behind your hatred of the Lucian kings,” Serge continues, “I still don’t understand why you suddenly want to annihilate Niflheim. You’ve been our Chancellor for as long as I can remember. You know where all the corruption came from. You _know_ how much our people suffer.”

Given Ardyn’s penchant for flowery words and overexaggerated monologues, Prompto is half-expecting some kind of long, drawn out speech from him. Instead, Ardyn cocks his head to one side, shares a flat little smile with Serge and says, “They’re not my people, but if you feel as though I should do something to end their suffering, I assure you that I will.”

Ardyn then pivots sharply on his heel, clearly intent on getting Zephyr up into the air. Alarmed, Prompto opens his mouth to plead with Ardyn to stop. He can already hear Aranea taking a deep breath to do just the same. 

But Serge beats both of them to the proverbial punch.

With his SMG, of course.

If Ardyn didn’t feel particularly compelled to listen to them before, Prompto can’t see him changing his mind after having roughly half a clip of ammunition unloaded into the back of his head, which miraculously doesn’t explode upon impact. Even so, black ichor goes flying everywhere as Ardyn collapses forward onto the ground, his fedora rolling comically a few feet to one side. An unsettling silence then falls over the room, almost complete but for the soft rushing sound still coming from the room on the other side of the glass.

“...You need to run,” Aranea says as she summons her Stoss Spear and takes a few steps forward, giving herself space to take on a defensive stance. “ _Now_ , Serge.”

“Too late,” Prompto mutters as he watches the fingers of Ardyn’s right hand twitch before slowly uncurling and then flexing into a fist.

Sure enough, Ardyn is already regaining consciousness. It’s hard to see the extent of the damage Serge dealt to him or how far along he’s already healed given the inky sheen of blood matted to the hair on the back of his head, but already Ardyn is pushing himself slowly up onto his knees before leaning over to snatch his hat off the ground. Then he rises to his full height, swaying precariously for a moment on his feet before he turns back around, his eyes as black as pitch and his skin the same greyish pallor of the dead, one corner of his mouth cocked into an empty smile.

“...What the fuck,” Serge exhales.

“Let me tell you something about Niflheim, dearest,” Ardyn says, ignoring Serge for the moment. “The vast majority of people born into the Empire live like serfs, barely educated past the point of knowing what is required of them to continue the family business, hardly hoping to achieve a better status in life. They live in squalor and sin, and they care little, if at all, about what happens outside the walls of their ‘ _great_ ’ cities. If nothing is done about them, they will find a way to exterminate themselves, but not before taking the rest of Eos with them.” He casts his oily gaze on Aranea and Serge before looking to Prompto again. “Is that what you want, the savages of a dying Empire amassing once more on Lucis’ doorstep? Rest assured, even without Aldercapt to ‘ _lead_ ’ them, the war is far from over.”

Aranea shakes her head. “We’re done fighting.”

“ _You_ might be, Commodore, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know as well as I do that in the chaos left in the wake of Aldercapt’s passing, Niflheim is fit to bursting with desperate people.”

Serge raises his rifle again. “We’re _not_ going to let you destroy our home.”

“It’s already as good as gone,” Ardyn replies.

And then, in a flash of mauve light, he moves.

However, before he does, Prompto can feel something curling around the very core of his being and yanking him into overdrive, a silent summons to battle that has him reaching into Ardyn’s armiger for his Lion Heart before he even knows what he’s doing. His brain has made an automatic shift into kill mode, although he doesn’t know if this was intentionally caused by Ardyn. All he _does_ know is that it interferes with his first attempt at popping off a shot at the other man, instead hesitating with his finger on the trigger when Ardyn re-materializes in front of Serge, a small part of his brain telling him to aim at someone other than his king.

Fortunately, Aranea isn’t mentally coupled to some angry two-thousand-year-old guy because she acts solely on her own instincts as she darts forward, spear raised to intercept Ardyn’s broadsword on its downward arch. She halts the blade inches away from the crown of Serge’s head, quickly jerking her spear back and forth again to cut off Ardyn’s next attack. Serge, meanwhile, takes a step back, lifting his SMG to take aim at Ardyn’s face before he pulls off his next few shots. Though he was initially startled by Ardyn’s quick recovery, his face has now adopted the cold and collected expression of someone ready for a fight.

Ardyn, of course, is just as prepared. He first warps a few feet to the left, then to the right, dancing deftly around the spray of Serge’s bullets. Once Serge empties his clip and is forced to reload, Prompto watches as Ardyn airsteps above and over the other man, swinging his broadsword back around just as he lands.

But Serge doesn’t flinch.

Most likely because he knows that Aranea has him covered, because much like how she was able anticipate Noct’s warp-directed movements back in their fight at Fort Vaullerey, Aranea is clearly able to keep pace with Ardyn here. Given the length of her military service and the fact that she’s personally acquainted with Cor the Immortal, Prompto imagines she has oodles of experience swatting at multiple Kingsglaives mid-warp. At least here, she only has one opponent with supernatural abilities to worry about.

However, that’s not to say that Ardyn is an easy target. In fact, Aranea appears to only _just_ be able to keep her blade in Ardyn’s way as he continues his attempts to dodge around her, clearly still gunning for Serge. A few times, it even looks as though she keeps herself a little too open in her mad scramble to deflect his attacks, but either Ardyn’s too obsessed with Serge to care or he intends to keep his word about letting her leave this place alive because Prompto can think of no other reason behind why Ardyn wouldn’t take advantage of her in her sudden state of panic.

Speaking of panic, Prompto has no idea what his own problem is at the moment. He wants to join the fray, but he’s having trouble getting the proverbial engine running. It’s a purely mental block, that much he knows, but it’s different from the first time he ever sparred against Noctis, where the only thing that stayed his hand was the fear of causing his friend any amount of pain. Thankfully, the solid ass-whopping Noctis dealt him that day taught him to shoot first and ask himself hard, moral questions later, but he’s suffering from something other than a little heartache right now, seeing as he would normally love nothing more than to completely unload on Ardyn.

It kind of feels as though he’s fighting against a current as Prompto tries to calculate where Ardyn is most likely to exit his next warp and move his arm to correct his aim. Somehow, he still has difficulty squeezing the trigger, up until Serge empties another clip on Ardyn without landing a single hit, at which point Ardyn switches out his broadsword with a spear and deftly jabs it under Aranea’s arm toward Serge’s heart.

The sound of Prompto’s bullet finally connecting with the head of Ardyn’s spear is a glorious thing, especially when it knocks Ardyn momentarily off balance. However, as satisfying as it is to see the flash of anger that crosses Ardyn’s face, Prompto’s act of defiance is short-lived. His Lion Heart vanishes in a flash of light before he can take another shot, leaving him empty handed as Ardyn suddenly whirls around on the spot, swapping his spear for an honest-to-the-gods _bola_ mid-turn and hurling it at Prompto in retaliation.

Fortunately, next to his spectacular aim with firearms, Prompto’s second best contribution to the Crownsguard is his ability to hit the deck in all his flailing glory in record time. As such, he collapses backwards onto the ground pretty much intuitively, successfully avoiding the bola, even if it whizzes over his prone form close enough that he can feel it stirring the air above his face. The only downside to his choice of maneuvering—Gladio probably would’ve batted the bola away with his shield, and Ignis would’ve vaulted over it with his spear—is that it leaves him lying flat on his back, pretty much helpless to do anything as Ardyn transitions into his next move against the others, which is materialize his own shield and bat Aranea directly into Serge with an explosive flash of light.

The way in which they’re then knocked halfway across the room would almost be comical if not for the fact that Prompto knows how incredibly painful the experience must be. Not only that, but they don’t exactly execute the best landing, skidding a few feet across the floor toward the gaping hole that the gravity well made the last time they were here. Serge flops over the edge before he seems to know what’s happening, and Aranea very nearly follows after him. She skids very close to the edge, then pushes herself up onto her knees and breathlessly mutters, _“Shit_ ,” when she realizes where her colleague disappeared off to. Knowing how very little time she has to revive him down below, she scrambles to her feet and executes her infamous ‘Highwind’ technique over the hole to plummet safely after him.

By then, Prompto has also clambered to his feet, reaching into the armiger on reflex for a weapon and belatedly realizing that Ardyn has cut him off from it for the moment. Speaking of Ardyn, the other man chooses then to warp directly in front of him, fisting his hand in the front of Prompto’s coat before lifting him swiftly up off his feet in a show of strength that would put Gladio to shame.

After pulling Prompto in close enough that he can feel the other man’s breath against his face, Ardyn says, his voice low and dangerous, “I am your _king_. Did you _honestly_ believe you could use my armiger against me?”

For a split second, Prompto contemplates kneeing the bastard right in the groin. He’s at the perfect height for it, anyway, but a nut shot isn’t going to do anything better than a bullet can besides piss Ardyn off further, which is definitely the wrong way to go right now. Therefore, Prompto finds himself reduced to pleading. “Ardyn, you’ve already won,” he says, trying to sound calm and collected. “They—”

“—are hardly worth your efforts,” Ardyn snarls, giving Prompto a bit of a shake, as if hoping to rattle a little sense into him. “And if they _were_ , one would assume that the gods might feel compelled to help them. But then, they never saw fit to intervene on _your_ behalf, at least so far as I can recall, which leaves me to wonder how you came upon this notion that it’s your divine duty to protect them. You serve Lucis and its King, no one else.”

Prompto has no idea what he can say to change Ardyn’s mind, but Ardyn doesn’t give him the chance to say something anyway before he warps them both across the room. 

Suddenly becoming some quasi-intangible being shifting quickly through time and space still manages to take Prompto by surprise. There’s this intense moment where he feels like he’s on a whole other plane of existence, which was kind of fun when Noctis used to warp them around during his sparring exercises, but the pleasant sensation comes to an abrupt halt when they collide with something so damn _hard_ that it literally knocks the wind out of Prompto.

As it turns out, the collision was intentional; Ardyn pulled out of the warp mid-air, about halfway down to the second floor below, so that he could stomp on Aranea’s face as she tried to vault Serge and herself back up into the control room. Pretty much everyone then ends up sprawled out on the lower floor, with the exception of Ardyn, who lands gracefully between them all on one knee before rising to his feet.

Dazed, Prompto lifts his head to look over at Aranea, who landed about twenty feet away from him and isn’t moving. 

Her Stoss Spear is lying directly between them.

Prompto knows that Ardyn can steal pretty much any weapon he lays his hands on, but he wonders if that rule extends to weapons that belong in someone else’s armiger or pocket dimension, barring Noct’s. He therefore pushes himself to his feet and makes a move for it, although Ardyn already seems to know what he’s thinking. The other man has materialized the largest mace Prompto has ever seen, some monstrous thing with a long haft and a knobbed end that looks like it was invented at least three hundred years ago. Prompto only catches a glimpse of it, though, before Ardyn whips it around before crouching down low, taking aim below Prompto’s knees.

While he’d like to think that he’s pretty quick on his feet, jumping any significant height on command is not his forte, which means that Prompto botches the little hop he tries to take over the mace. He succeeds in lifting his right leg high enough to avoid the blow, but the knobbed end still catches his left ankle with a resounding _crack_ , one that obviously doesn’t bode well.

Prompto knows something’s been fractured or broken even before he lands awkwardly on his feet. A nauseating wave of pain radiates up from his leg before he collapses onto the ground and rolls over onto his side, curling his wounded leg up toward his chest. Even though he’s been slapped around by some pretty fierce beasts on his travels, he’s usually been knocked unconscious right from the get-go, roused only when someone’s doused him with a potion, at which point his injuries are already on the mend. He’s never had to ride out the agony of his injuries like this before, and the pain only seems to be getting worse now, escalating into a sharp, throbbing sensation that makes his vision go kind of fuzzy around the edges as his head spins.

It feels like he’s fighting against another current as he tries to stay focused, one that sends his mind spiraling in the weirdest direction, because when he lifts his head, he’s initially confused beyond belief to see himself standing where Ardyn was only moments again. However, in about another second, he realizes Ardyn hasn’t morphed into him; instead, he’s adopted the illusion of someone who could easily pass for one of Prompto’s relatives, a young man with a slight figure and short blond hair, wearing the kind of dark green military fatigues Prompto’s seen Aranea’s crew don under their winter gear.

While Prompto has absolutely no idea who Ardyn’s trying to imitate, Serge clearly recognizes his new face. The poor man is still lying on the ground, with his weight supported back on one elbow and his free hand curled around the grip of his rifle, but he makes no move to take aim at Ardyn. Instead, he stares up at Ardyn’s illusion, his face ashen, like he’s just seen a ghost. 

“Go ahead,” Ardyn says, a teasing lilt to his stolen voice. He extends his arms out to either side of himself, an open invitation for trouble. “The first shot is free.”

“This can’t be real...” Serge breathes, the hint of a tremor in his voice.

“It’s not,” Prompto grits out, trying to blink away the tears gathering in his eyes. _Gods_ , is his ankle ever killing him. Could someone just cut off his entire leg already? “It’s just an illusion!”

He doesn’t know if Serge can hear him. The other man’s eyes are still glued to Ardyn, and he doesn’t budge so much as an inch when Ardyn slowly begins to advance on him.

“Consider it penance,” Ardyn continues, ignoring Prompto’s little outburst, “to look upon the face of the friend you failed in the hour of your own death. You can tell him how sorry you _really_ are once you’ve been reacquainted with him in whatever hell he’s languishing in with your other countrymen.”

“...He wouldn’t be in hell,” Serge replies, finally dragging himself back a few inches, although the gesture is hardly enough to put any significant amount of distance between them. At least it looks as though he’s beginning to return to his senses.

“Why not?” Ardyn laughs. “He was a willing pawn of Niflheim’s war machine, just another warm body to throw at the growing problem that Lucis was becoming, although I suppose even in that he was something of a failure.”

Something about what he says obviously doesn’t sit well with Serge because he finally takes a shot at Ardyn, although he doesn’t unload his next clip like Prompto thought he would. Maybe then he could’ve made a run for it while Ardyn regenerated. Instead, his mental block persists, keeping him literally grounded as Ardyn takes the hit directly to the chest and then kicks the rifle out of Serge’s hands.

Panicking, Prompto looks over at Aranea’s Stoss Spear, wondering if he can do something with it even with a bum leg. However, it appears as though Ardyn kicked it several more feet away once he knocked Prompto down, and Aranea is still out cold, which means that Prompto has virtually nothing to work with here.

Frantic, Prompto then tries to reach back into the armiger, wondering what it would take to slip something out without Ardyn noticing. However, all he gets for his efforts is a strange buzzing noise that feels like it’s emanating from inside his own skull and a coy little smile from Ardyn’s illusion before the man stomps his heel down into Serge’s face.

Serge crumbles back from the blow, momentarily stunned as Ardyn casually straddles the other man and leans forward, curling his hands around Serge’s throat. It’s as he begins to squeeze that Serge seems to come back to himself, blinking up at Ardyn first in confusion and then a mix of anger and fear as he tries to pry Ardyn’s hands free. 

But Ardyn doesn’t seem at all fazed by his efforts. In fact, he looks delighted, allowing himself another small smile as he watches Serge struggle. “You know, I always wondered why you and so many of your colleagues retaliated to the degree that you did when your companion died. Was he really as good a fuck as Canidius made him out to be?”

“Ardyn!” Prompto shouts, heart hammering inside his chest. Momentarily, his vision swims. Reality has suddenly taken on something of a surreal quality as the buzzing intensifies inside his skull, but through the pain of it all, he keeps _reaching_ , feeling around inside the dark space for one of his weapons. He can’t let anyone die.

He just can’t.

Ardyn has elected once again to ignore him, too focused on Serge’s thrashing body to care. “Your colleague didn’t have to die, you know. I selected him as a candidate for a mission in Lucis long before his assault, but that itself, I thought, had been a fortuitous turn of events. I _assumed_ he would be pleased with the opportunity to transfer out of the palace, somewhere far away from his assailant.” Annoyance momentarily twists the fair features of Ardyn’s stolen face, as if he was suddenly reminded of an old failure. “But he turned me down.”

Serge, of course, can say nothing to that, and it’s disconcerting that he doesn’t seem to be thrashing as hard anymore. When prying at Ardyn’s hands does nothing for him, he resorts to scratching at Ardyn’s face, trying to get to his eyes, but Ardyn is as unfazed with this tactic as he is with everything else he’s done. Serge is fading fast.

Soon, this will all be over.

Which is a fact that excites Ardyn in a way that Prompto will never truly understand. He sneers down at Serge in sick satisfaction as he says, “There are two things I would very much like you to know before you die. First, _I_ am the one who ensured the Corporal’s allegations against Canidius never went anywhere, hopefully to give him an incentive to work for me. Second, I rang up Canidius in his office after your friend turned down my offer, just to let the dear Captain know that he had only a few minutes left to bid the boy a fond farewell. You wouldn’t believe how _grateful_ he was for the tip.”

Prompto’s stomach roils, and from more than just the pain. Ardyn was just so...bitter. To keep someone from obtaining justice and then facilitating their death in a fit of petulance is about the farthest thing Prompto could imagine a _king_ would be capable of. Is this _honestly_ what Ardyn thought Lucis needed right now, someone who only knew how to take what they wanted and torment anyone who wouldn’t buckle to their whims?

Serge, apparently, has finally reached his limit. His hands drop from Ardyn’s face, and he barely seems to notice when Ardyn leans farther forward, putting a little more of his weight into Serge’s throat. 

The buzzing in Prompto’s ears suddenly grows into an ominous rush. Momentarily, he feels disjointed from his pain. His hands turn as cold as ice as he continues to reach.

Ardyn laughs.

And then he cries out in agony.

In a brilliant blaze of blue light, Ardyn recoils from Serge, dropping his illusion as he jumps back to his feet and cradles his left arm to his chest. He seems to be in a state of disbelief as he stares down at the arrow of light buried between the bones of his forearm, wincing when it then fades into nothing. 

As his blood begins to seep through his coat sleeve and onto the floor, Ardyn turns his dark gaze on Prompto and snarls, “You would _dare_?”

Prompto, who is still lying prone on the ground, rolled over onto his stomach so that he can keep the Bow of the Wise trained on Ardyn, says, “The ‘King of Kings’ technically outranks you, and I don’t think he’d be too pleased with the way you’ve been handling things in his absence, ‘ _Your Majesty_ ’.”

Truth be told, Prompto doesn’t know what Noctis is thinking right now or if he’s even capable of thinking _at all_ while he’s in the Crystal. All Prompto knows is that when he was rummaging around in the great beyond for _anything_ , he could feel the cold tendrils of power emanating from the same corner of reality that Noctis stored the Royal Arms. Prompto had previously only ever accessed them at Noct’s behest, but apparently this was something else he was free to use at will—and clearly something Ardyn _couldn’t_ , seeing as he hadn’t been able to pinch them when he stole the rest of Noct’s armiger, probably because he hadn’t earned the right to wield them the same way Noctis did. Even now, it doesn’t look as though he can relieve Prompto of this particular weapon, because Prompto is still poised and ready to riddle him with a few more arrows.

However, it’s actually not a lot of fun holding one of the Royal Arms for too long. Usually, he only handles them for a few seconds at a time, and that’s because they look _and_ feel like literal ice, even the bowstring. Already, his hands are beginning to go a little numb. If something miraculous doesn’t happen soon-ish, they’re all going to be back to square one with Ardyn.

Fortunately, something _does_ happen then. 

_Unfortunately_ , that something is a deep and menacing rumble that builds with terrifying speed. It forces Prompto to relinquish his hold on the Bow of the Wise in order to brace his hands against the ground in front of himself as it begins to shake. This sort of thing used to happen whenever the Archaean decided to join the fray, but even then that usually felt a little different. An odd sort of calm would wash over everyone whenever the Titan came a-calling, which Prompto assumed was just a byproduct of being connected to the gods via Noctis. _This_...this is something different, something absolutely _terrifying_ , jarring his leg in a way that doesn’t bode well for his nausea. This certainly isn’t something god-related, that much he can tell...

It takes a second, but it’s with horrifying clarity that Prompto eventually figures out what this is exactly, although only because there’s really nothing else it _can_ be:

It’s Zephyr.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Goddamn it, Ardyn...


	15. The elusiveness of happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Raise your hand if you thought the holidays would be a time of fun and relaxation...Yeah, me too. I wanted to get this done weeks ago, but I had a lot of non-fun writing to do for work, which ate up my fun writing time.
> 
> Anyway, with this chapter, we complete part 1 of 3 of the series. Enjoy!

~***~

For a moment, it feels as though the whole world is about to come falling down around him.

The deep rumble emanating from above continues to build into a feverish pitch. Prompto tries to keep his hands pressed against the floor to stabilize himself as the whole building shakes, but the vibrations rattle his injured leg, and his consciousness suffers for it; he wavers briefly on the precipice of darkness as he waits for whatever is happening to reach its horrifying conclusion. 

But just as suddenly as it begins, the madness comes to an almost abrupt halt.

The tremendous swell of sound quickly subsides into a faint hum that then peters off into nothing. The tremors go with it, finally giving Prompto’s shattered ankle a reprieve. He knows what is going on here, that the missile has been launched, but the implication of what that really means is somehow made all the more terrifying in the ensuing silence; this is only the eye of the storm, the calm that precedes the calamity. The missile’s destination is set in stone, and when it finally reaches its target, this great swell of destruction will follow swiftly after it.

In the missile’s absence, Prompto begins to hear other things. One is the soft sound of Aranea shifting, her eyes still closed, as she struggles to rouse herself. The other is the hoarse cough from Serge, who has rolled over onto his side and looks a few shades redder than Prompto can ever remember seeing him, though the fact that he’s breathing bodes well. Prompto knows the greatest danger from strangulation is the restriction of blood flow to the brain, but Ardyn’s strong enough that he could easily crush someone’s windpipe with his bare hands. Serge got lucky here.

Speaking of Ardyn, the other man is currently standing between them all, staring up through the giant hole in the ceiling as he rhythmically flexes and relaxes the hand of his injured arm. His black ichor is no longer dribbling onto the floor, which suggests that he’s already recovering. Even so, he doesn’t look pleased. If anything, he looks hopelessly baffled. Initially, at least. A second later, he fixes his cold stare on Prompto before vanishing in a tell-tale flash of light.

Prompto doesn’t have time to react when Ardyn suddenly rematerializes in front of him. Ardyn crouches down to fist his hand in the collar of Prompto’s coat before yanking him upright and then warping them both back upstairs. He brings them to an abrupt halt in front of the computer console that he had been occupying earlier, shoving Prompto into one of the chairs beside it as he settles directly in front of the main monitor.

Prompto doesn’t have the faintest idea what the several lines of code on the screen mean, but he gets the gist of what Ardyn is looking for when the other man scrolls down to a set of numbers: -31.579423, -130.457389.

Then Prompto allows himself a small smile.

Predictably, Ardyn whips his head around to glare at Prompto, venom in his voice as he says, “ _Where_ did you send it?”

Prompto thinks back to what Wedge told him this morning. Then he softly says, “The Cygilhan Ocean.”

Despite his obvious ire, Ardyn continues to look utterly confused. He glances back at the computer screen, as if trying to figure out how they managed to pull it off. Then he quickly types something into the keyboard, pulling up a grid of the surrounding security feeds on an adjacent monitor. One of the tiny squares features the hangar below.

It’s empty.

Ardyn warps away immediately, but Prompto keeps his eyes trained on the screen because, sure enough, the other man soon pops up in the hangar, checking to see if Prompto’s companions have truly disappeared. Just as quickly, Ardyn returns, standing beside Prompto’s chair to loom over the boy as he knowingly hisses, “ _Metelyk_.”

By now, Ardyn’s obviously realized that their little chat and battle were nothing more than a distraction. 

As per their plan, when Serge slammed the door open, Wedge had slipped inside behind him and made his way over to the computer console, waiting until the ruckus began before redirecting the missile somewhere else. ‘Metelyk,’ of course, had a hand in this aspect of their mission, shielding Wedge from view much in the same way that they once made Prompto invisible against the Patria, although utilizing the messenger had been one of the biggest gambles Prompto has ever made, especially since he still isn’t sure what the messenger’s purpose in Eos is and how they really operate. He had simply seen the butterfly perched on the ramp to Aranea’s airship earlier today, it’s semi-translucent wings gently quivering, and then suddenly remembered sitting in a field of wheat, enveloped in someone’s arms as they offered him their assistance. That was Metelyk, he thinks, a being who was both made of light and capable of manipulating it, although he had trouble believing that entirely, even when he stood in Aranea’s airship and said aloud that he was invoking Metelyk’s aid in shielding Wedge from sight. It wasn’t until Serge burst through the door a few minutes ago, seemingly alone, that Prompto realized there really _was_ some greater power watching over him.

The fact that Ardyn obviously knows about Metelyk is a bit of a bummer because now Prompto can’t play dumb about what’s going on, but he had mentally prepared himself for this eventuality before he left the outpost. They all did. While nobody much liked the idea of putting Prompto in danger with this ploy of theirs, they agreed to go through with it, even knowing full well that Ardyn could kill any one of them today. Of course, Prompto is glad that Metelyk decided to take the initiative to sneak out more than just Wedge when Ardyn’s back was turned, but he won’t pretend that he’s not a little sad to be facing the other man alone in the end. 

“I am the King of Lucis,” Ardyn hisses for what must be the upteenth time. Prompto’s beginning to wonder who he’s really trying to convince here, Prompto or himself. “Neither the gods _nor_ their messengers can interfere in my work, yet here they are, toeing the line to spare a few _rats_ from retribution.” 

“But those ‘rats’ are not Lucians,” Prompto replies. “And you’re not the King of Niflheim, so I think, technically, the Astrals _can_ interfere on their behalf.” 

Ardyn’s face momentarily slackens, as if he was surprised that Prompto of all people would pick up on that little technicality. Seeing the other man speechless has to be one of Prompto’s top ten favorite moments of all time, even if the experience is short-lived. 

Outraged, Ardyn grabs him by the collar of his coat again and hauls Prompto back to his feet, uncaring of the way that Prompto’s head swims from the pain in his ankle. The injured joint must be pretty swollen by now because his boot suddenly feels unbearably tight, although the irreparable damage he’s likely to obtain from his injury doesn’t really matter when he’s pretty sure Ardyn is about to _end him_ sometime in the next couple of seconds anyway.

Except, Ardyn doesn’t. Instead, something passes behind his eyes, his brow slowly furrowing as if he’s only just come to a significant realization. Then, he fixes Prompto with another look of annoyance, although the promise of fire and damnation is curiously missing.

“I have a decade to bring the rest of the world to heel,” Ardyn says finally, as if the failure he suffered here was really nothing. “Today, I would’ve brought the Niflheim Empire a death both swift and painless, but you’ve forced me to draw the process out now. The war I intend to wage in the coming years will be more horrifying than anything you could possibly imagine.”

“You really want to ruin the world?” Prompto asks, already knowing that Ardyn likely intends for everyone in Eos to suffer _regardless_ of how his plans turned out today. “Just to get even with the gods?”

Ardyn releases his hold on Prompto suddenly. Unprepared, Prompto collapses backward, completely missing the chair and nearly smacking his head against the desk behind him. He hisses between his teeth at the swift jolt of pain that runs up his leg as he collides with the floor.

“Perhaps, I expected too much of you,” Ardyn sighs, adopting his typical condescending tone of voice as he crouches down in front of Prompto, arms braced loosely against his knees. “After all, what could a child possibly understand of a war almost as old as time itself? But I think there’s more than enough room—” He extends his hand suddenly to tap a finger twice against Prompto’s forehead “—in that pretty little head of yours for my wisdom. Only time will tell how much you will ultimately learn.”

Tilting his head back out of reach, Prompto says, “ _Look_ , I wasn’t put on this planet to be your plaything. Even if you _are_ the King of Lucis, I only ever vowed to serve Noctis. Call it insubordination if you want; kill me if it rubs you the wrong way. I don’t care. I refuse to follow your orders.”

“But you will,” Ardyn assures him, soundly sweetly amused. “In fact, you’ll come crawling back to me for my favor soon enough.”

And with that, Ardyn rises.

It’s Prompto’s turn to be horribly baffled, because crawling ‘back’ to someone implies a period of separation. Call it wishful thinking if you will, but this gives Prompto just a sliver of hope that Ardyn doesn’t intend to drag him kicking and screaming to Insomnia, at least for now.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Ardyn is going to leave him in the best of shape, which is why Prompto can’t help but flinch when Ardyn glances down at his injured leg, Thankfully, the man merely offers him a cruel smile, tips the brim of his hat to Prompto, and says, “You will return to my warm embrace much sooner than you think, dearest. Try not to let your eyes wander in the meantime.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone, leaving nothing but a brief afterimage in his wake.

Prompto sits there for a minute, unmoving. He’s stunned, sure, but he’s mostly just bracing himself for Ardyn’s reappearance, a kind of _‘Gotcha!’_ moment before he unleashes his unbridled fury on Prompto. Then that minute stretches into five, and Prompto finally entertains the idea that maybe he’s alone.

Tentatively, he relaxes just a smidgen and takes a deep breath. He’s stiff and sore and really _really_ worried about what kind of trouble Ardyn is intent on getting up to right now, but there’s nothing he can do about that sitting on his ass in an empty facility. HIs next order of business is to get outside and regroup with the others. _Then_ he’ll figure out what he’s supposed to do about Ardyn.

Of course, the only safe route that he knows out of here is back the way he came, down the long passageway and up the ladder to the pseudo-maintenance booth, but hobbling along on one foot is going to take a lot of time and effort. Of course, he stuffed a potion in his pocket on the off chance that Ardyn wouldn’t steal it from him, but, predictably, it’s gone. The bastard relieved him of pretty much everything once the battle began today.

So...hobbling along it is.

He won’t lie. It _sucks_. He ends up half-crawling over to the other side of the room, moving as slowly and carefully as he can, but that hardly minimizes his pain. His adrenaline rush is beginning to wear off, so he’s an achy, trembling, _exhausted_ mess of a human being with a leg that’s beginning to feel a little like it’s on fire. Tears well up in his eyes, but he pushes onward, using the door to help him back to his feet, at which point he leans into the wall for support as he then moves along the passageway. Thank the gods it’s still early in the day, because he doesn’t know how he could possibly make it out of here alive if he stumbled across a daemon.

He does stumble across someone, though. At first, he thinks it’s Ardyn that he sees up ahead, here to gloat and revel in Prompto’s agony. However, it just turns out to be Wedge, who whips the bag off his back as he jogs toward Prompto and pulls out a hi-potion.

Prompto’s so happy to see him, he openly sobs in relief.

“A little worse for wear, I see,” Wedge quips as he hands Prompto the curative.

Given how long ago Prompto was injured, he has no idea how effective any kind of potion is going to be, especially if he’s suffering from anything worse than a fracture. He might need surgery down the road, but here’s hoping it doesn’t come to that.

Prompto breaks the hi-potion in his hand and almost sobs again at the warmth that suddenly washes over him. The fire in his leg begins to subside, tingling more than anything. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“Best to keep your weight off that for now, eh?” Wedge chuckles as he swings the bag over his back. Then he grabs one of Prompto’s arms and slings it over his shoulders, giving him a little more support as they make their way together toward the exit.

“I can’t believe this worked,” Prompto says after a while, finally allowing himself to marvel at their accomplishment now that his pain is no longer foremost on his mind.

“You’re not alone,” Wedge replies. “I’m not sure what the consequences are of launching a missile into the ocean, but I imagine there are a fair number of disgruntled fish in the world today.”

Prompto can’t help but snort at the mental image of a shark being violently propelled miles away in the largest tidal wave Eos has even seen. Here’s hoping they didn’t put a dent in anyone’s fishing industry with this little stunt.

“And Metelyk?” Prompto asks, “What was it like being invisible for so long?”

Wedge makes an odd sort of noise, a cross between a huff of disbelief and utter astonishment. “It was amazing...and difficult.” He pauses a moment and then laughs. “To be honest with you, I thought you lost your mind this morning—both you _and_ the Commodore. You said some mythical being was going to shield me from sight, and then you both rode off into the distance without any explanation. I’m surprised she didn’t question your plan when you proposed it.”

Right after Wedge had explained to them that the only feasible way to deal with Zephyr was to launch it somewhere unpopulated, Prompto had pretty much done just as Wedge described. He had just felt so confident that everything would work out somehow, like he was acting on some secret information someone had downloaded directly into his brain. 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Prompto admits. “I’ve been having all these fevers lately and these half-remembered dreams. I think that’s how Metelyk’s been trying to communicate with me. They’ve been trying to explain what’s going on in the world and what I’m supposed to do until the true King of Lucis returns.”

“Metelyk is a messenger of the gods?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly have they said to you?”

“...I don’t remember,” he says. “Not entirely. I don’t know if the average human brain can handle communicating directly with the gods as easily as the Lucian kings do. Even then, my friend usually felt as though it took the wind right out of him.”

“Well, that aptly describes how being invisible for too long feels. I was sitting at the computer, sweating and shaking like I was about to die while you were dealing with the Chancellor down below.”

“How long exactly were you invisible?”

“From the moment the Corporal kicked open the door until I retreated back outside. That... _film_ followed me the whole way. Then it vanished into thin air.”

“Metelyk came back to save Aranea and Serge,” Prompto explains. “I’m glad they did.”

Wedge grunts in agreement. “And then the messenger came back for you?”

“Uh...no, actually.”

After a moment of confusion, Wedge asks, “How did you get out of there then?”

“Ardyn just...let me go?” Prompto’s mind is still reeling from their last exchange; he still hasn’t figured out why Ardyn left him. “He promised to make everyone in the world absolutely miserable one way or another, and then he warp-sauntered the hell out of there. That’s about as best as I can describe it.” 

“Wonderful...” Wedge mutters. “But I suppose that’s to be expected of a man like Izunia. However, why didn’t Metelyk shield you first before the others?”

“Because I don’t think they.”

Wedge gives him a curious look out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t it save you against that Patria?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it can help me directly against Ardyn.” It annoys him that he can’t explain it any better than that, but he really is limited in what he can remember from his many talks with Metelyk. Maybe in due time, he won’t have this mental block anymore. “I think it has to do with some pact between Ardyn and the Astrals. That’s my guess, anyway.”

Wedge shrugs against him. “Alright, well… I’m happy you’re still alive, Mr. Argentum.”

“You and me both, buddy.”

Between Wedge’s assistance and the hi-potion, Prompto begins to feel infinitely better by the time they reach the ladder. He’s still cautious about putting his weight on his ankle, but now it merely aches more than anything. He might’ve lucked out with just a fracture when Ardyn swung that mace at him, but he’ll still have a doctor check it out once he returns to civilization.

When they finally step outside the maintenance shed, Prompto is delighted to see that Aranea and Serge are lingering by a copse of trees nearby, beside the snowmobiles that they drove down here from the outpost earlier in the day. Aranea cracks a grin at him and shakes her head in disbelief as Serge steps forward to slap Prompto warmly on the shoulder.

“I don’t know much about the gods or their whims,” Serge says as he suddenly glances nervously aside, “but I _think_ I’m glad to have their support.”

Following his line of regard, Prompto notices how the watery sunlight appears to be glancing off of some translucent... _thing_ in the distance, a thin film of colour, like the delicate surface of the bubble. But as soon as he lays his eyes on the messenger, Metelyk shimmers and disappears, vanishing into the great unknown.

“Same here,” Aranea says, “But I’m not going to lie, it was more than a little unnerving walking past all those magitek guards without triggering their sensors.”

“What else can this ‘Metelyk’ do,” Serge asks, “besides turn a person virtually invisible?”

“No clue,” Prompto says, “but I’ll try to find out the next time we chat—assuming they ever reach out to me again.”

Aranea snorts at his comment and then slings her leg over her bike. “Kid, I think Ardyn and the Astrals are just warming up. Not to scare you, but I think you can probably look forward to having another chat with them sooner than you think.”

Not that he’s opposed to speaking with Metelyk or another messenger in the coming years, but the idea that he’s somehow tied up in this colossal mess still rattles him to his core. In his mind, he’s still just some dumb kid who wants to run home and curl up under the covers of his bed, but clearly the universe has other plans for him, plans that unfortunately revolve around Ardyn.

Given his newfound freedom, Prompto tries not to think about the other man as he hops on Serge’s bike, holding on tight as they race off to Aranea’s airship, which a few of her other officers were supposed to have hidden in the nearby forest. Sure enough, they find the red airship parked in a small clearing, lowering its ramp as they approach so that they can drive right on up before it immediately lifts off.

“Hostiles en route?” Vance asks, being the only officer currently in the hangar. She fists her hand in the netting against the wall beside her as the airship shudders and rises into the sky, eyes scanning the slit of the horizon still visible over the ramp before it seals completely behind them.

“Not so far as I can tell,” Aranea replies, waiting for Wedge to slip off the back of her bike so that she can dismount. “Where are the others?”

“Captain Morse picked them up about an hour ago, but he decided to take them to Lestallum instead of Gralea, given the message we radioed to him this morning.”

“Good. Have Rei set a course for Lestallum as well. I need to speak with Cor Leonis before we decide where to deliver any more of our refugees.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vance replies, pausing only to spare a quick glance at Serge. A look of relief washes over her face and a small smile graces her lips before she retreats into the cockpit.

As Prompto dismounts, he turns to Serge and spots the quirk at the corner of the other man’s lips. The silent exchange between the two of them gives him flashbacks to his trip with Noctis and the others and the easy camaraderie that developed between the four incredibly different men.

“It’s nice,” Prompto quietly remarks as he follows Serge into the small benched area ahead of the hangar; Aranea and Wedge breeze right past them toward the cockpit, discussing how they’re going to get a hold of Cor. “You know, seeing the family-like dynamic within your unit.”

Taking a seat on the bench, Serge wrestles with the belts for a moment to strap himself in. “It comes easy when you’ve worked with the same group of people for as long as we have,” he replies. “Of course, Sgt. Vance is my real cousin, but I’ve worked alongside her and many of the other people on our team for the better part of my adult life.”

It sounded nice, growing old with the same group of people... Of course, Prompto has known Noctis since childhood, and he’s been in Gladio’s and Ignis’ shared orbit since high school, but he sometimes wonders what Gladio would look like a little older and arthritic, like his father before him, as he stood guard as a Shield beside the throne or how Ignis would fare in the transition from nannying an unruly teenager day in and day out into eventually becoming the General of the whole Lucian Army, as was the duty of every Hand of the King. As things stood now, Ignis would probably never lead anyone in his condition—assuming there was anything left of the Lucian army _to_ lead—and Prompto couldn’t see anyone wanting to guard the current bastard sitting on the throne, least of all Gladio. And as far as their own ‘family-like’ dynamic went, well...they haven’t exactly been in peak condition since Altissia. Even if Gladio and Noctis managed to bury the hatchet between them and Ignis felt fit to continue his duty, the three of them that were left didn’t feel like the same cohesive unit that they were at the start of their journey.

“I imagine that’s just like you and the rest of the Crownsguard?” Serge asks as Prompto takes a seat beside him.

“Yeah...” Prompto sighs, “and I really need to get back to them. I think leaving them in the first place was a mistake, but I guess I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Sometimes, spending a little time apart is an important step in building a stronger and more cohesive team.”

“...Distance makes the heart grow fonder?” Prompto lightly quips, hoping that’s true.

Serge laughs. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Speaking of families...” Vance says as she returns from the cockpit, dropping into the seat on Serge’s other side just as the airship hits a bit of turbulence. However, before buckling herself in, she rummages around inside one of her coat’s breast pockets for a small, folded stack of paper. She reaches across Serge to hand it to Prompto. “Have a look at the second last shot. He’s down in the front row, fifth from the left.”

Prompto doesn’t know who ‘he’ is supposed to be, but he humors her, unfolding what turns out to be a handful of very old photographs. The first three feature what Prompto recognizes as Arenea’s crew, the first shot being of them huddled around a fire in the dead of night and the other two with them standing more formally beside her airship. The next photograph is the one that Vance was referring to, a large and incredibly worn shot of at least a hundred officers sitting on a set of bleachers somewhere outside on a dark and overcast day. It kind of reminds Prompto of all his class photographs from grade school, where everyone was told to sit with their ankles crossed and their hands neatly folded together on their laps. The officers here are doing just that, although only a few of them are smiling, which was probably against the rules. The young man Vance told him to look for seems to be a member of this rebellion, smirking at the camera like he somehow finds this whole situation a little funny. 

Prompto recognizes a few of the other people in the crowd, the younger and fresher faces of some of Aranea’s current crew members, but he only spares them a glance; the kid in the front row has stolen his attention. Prompto has stared at himself in the mirror enough times to notice the few minor differences between their facial features, but they share _way more_ similarities, so much so that this soldier could still easily pass as his brother. It’s actually a little spooky. Prompto looks nothing like his adoptive parents, so seeing someone so much like him—someone _not_ floating around inside a tank in some dark and dingy laboratory—is one of the trippiest things he’s ever experienced. 

Prompto finds himself flipping over the photograph on impulse. Sure enough, there are a few names written on the back, each with a birthday date beside them. Some with a death date, too. He finds the name he knew he would find there written near the bottom of the list: _Aurelius Erro_.

According to the two dates beside his name, he was only 21 when he died.

“This is your friend,” Prompto breathes as he turns it back over again, not knowing what else to say. Sure, Serge had already painted an adequate picture of the horrifying way in which this young man had left the world, but Prompto hadn’t felt personally affected by that story until now, when he finally had a face to put to the name.

“He was born in a very small mountain village near the ancestral home of Verstael Besithia,” Vance explains. “I feel like there’s a _pretty_ good chance that you’re at least distantly related.”

…

Holy shit.

…

_Holy. Shit._

This means that he probably has living, breathing, _blood_ relatives who aren’t complete psychopaths living somewhere up in the mountains of Niflheim. _At this very moment_.

“I wish you could’ve met our friend,” Vance continues, “but at least his parents still live up there. Some aunts and uncles and cousins too. You could meet them all, if you wanted.”

“We could take you to them someday,” Serge quietly offers, staring down at the photograph in Prompto’s hand. His brow is momentarily furrowed with some unnamed emotion, but then the tension melts from his features and he looks up at Prompto, smiling a little as he says, “Once the world isn’t in complete turmoil anymore, we can show you anywhere you like in Niflheim. It might not be as beautiful as most other places in the world, but it’s got a certain charm to it.”

To say that Prompto was blown away by the fact that there were people who wanted to keep in touch with him and show him their homeland would be an understatement. Prompto didn’t normally allow himself to dream, but it was looking like his tiny circle of friends was finally growing a little more. Oh, wonder of wonders…

Even if he didn’t actually live long enough to see the end of this global disaster, Prompto was touched by their offer. “I would love that,” he says. “I’ve always wondered what Niflheim was like.”

“The landscape is pretty gloomy, actually,” Vance clarifies, “but the people are amazing. We just won’t tell anyone that you commune with the gods, otherwise you’ll have a mob following you around everywhere.”

“They’re pretty anti-religious over there?”

Vance shakes her head. “Just the opposite. _Super_ religious. At least the common folk are, but just about everyone is poor, so I guess that means the whole population. You’d have people lining up just to see your face or shake your hand or, I don’t know, cut off a lock of your hair while your back is turned, maybe.”

Prompto doesn’t know what surprises him more, the fact that the people of Niflheim are predominantly religious or that they’re incredibly poor. The vast majority of people living in Insomnia were agnostic at best, despite the fact that their city had apparently been stormed by the Infernian just a short while before Noctis was born and they were ruled over by a family that was supposed to be divinely ordained. And wasn’t Niflheim supposed to be a freaking powerhouse? The Empire had stolen so much land and resources over the years, he thought they would have more than enough to provide for everyone. Then again, the reason Niflheim had such an impressive army was probably because that’s where they funneled the bulk of their wealth.

Blinking in surprise, Prompto looks to Serge and asks, “So, wait—is _that_ why nobody put up a fight when I told you how we were going to deal with Zephyr? You think I’m some infallible agent of the gods?”

Serge laughs again. “After what happened today, mate, I’d have a hard time believing you’re _not_ some agent of the gods. But no. Because Lady A won’t hesitate to trust you, neither will we. Besides, you and the rest of the king’s retinue have been making an arse out of our army since you set out from Insomnia, so we already know how resourceful you can be.”

“I’m touched,” Prompto says, “but for future reference, I am _not_ the tactician of my group. Please don’t hesitate to call me out on something if it looks like I’m being an idiot.”

Serge shrugs. “Alright, but you’re not an idiot, and I think you proved that today.”

Prompto doesn’t know if relying on divine foreknowledge really makes him any less of an idiot personally, but he’ll take the compliment for now and make an effort not to suggest any more ideas that might look like he’s channeling the will of the gods going forward. But _wow_ , Ignis is definitely going to get a good laugh out of this... Or he’ll have a minor heart attack. It’s hard to tell. Ignis usually enjoys the many tales of trouble that Prompto’s landed himself in when they don’t involve Noctis, but he’s probably not going to be in a happy mood when Prompto tells him about everything else that happened during the trip.

That last thought kind of sobers him up, but thankfully their conversation has reached its natural conclusion. Vance stares at her photographs for a long while after Prompto hands them back to her, seeming to lose herself in a pleasant memory, and Serge leans his head back against the hull of the ship before he closes his eyes, electing to sleep the remainder of their journey back to Lestallum.

Prompto closes his eyes as well, but he doesn’t sleep. Instead, he thinks of everything he learned about Ardyn here and what of their encounter he’s willing to share with his friends.

Despite the noisome sensation in his stomach, he has a feeling that he’ll have to tell at least one of them everything.

~***~

It’s technically a long trip to Lestallum, but Prompto loses himself so completely in thought that they arrive before he knows it.

They’ve reached the twilight hours of the day when they eventually land, but the pilot parks them close to the road just south of Lestallum, where every second lamp post suddenly has a massive spotlight strapped to it. As such, Prompto is bathed in light when he steps down the ramp, squinting at the thick cables running along the ditch toward the city. A lot has clearly happened since he was last here, but he’s glad to see that the people have been proactive about protecting themselves from the daemons.

“Hold up!” Vance shouts as she jogs down the ramp after him. He turns around to see his bag in her hands, which she gently tosses to him. “We made sure to pack your things before we left.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Prompto sighs in relief, tearing it open and immediately rummaging around inside for his phone and camera. 

Serge whistles in admiration from his position at the top of the ramp once Prompto whips out his camera. “People can really afford something like that around here?”

Prompto stares up at him quizzically for a moment and then remembers that most people are poor back in Niflheim. “Yeah. In general, anyway. This model is pretty expensive. I poured quite a few pay cheques into it. But now that we’re on the topic of cameras—would it be too much to ask for your picture? I usually take, like, _a gazillion_ , but I somehow managed not to snap a single shot this trip.”

“You want to take a picture of _me_?” Serge asks, looking completely dumbfounded.

“Yeah. And Vance,” Prompto waves them both down the ramp. “And Captain Kincaid, too, seeing as he’s just loitering in the hangar.”

Wedge, who is indeed loitering in the hangar as if he doesn’t want to intrude, smiles at Prompto and silently joins them at the bottom of the ramp for Prompto’s one and only group-selfie shot of his adventure. It’s not his best work considering the glaring light above them, but everyone looks lively and happy and Prompto wants to immortalize the moment while it lasts.

“I wish I could get a few shots of everyone else,” Prompto says somewhat forlornly once he lowers his camera. He’s sorry he never took the opportunity to wish them all a proper goodbye.

“According to Lady A, we’ll be regrouping in Lestallum,” Vance reminds him. “Our contact in the city already knows where you and your companions live, so we’ll swing by once we get the chance.”

“That would be _awesome_.” The thought of introducing Aranea’s crew to the guys makes him feel stupidly giddy, and he doesn’t care if it shows. He’s had a day. Scratch that—he’s had a _number_ of days, so he’s going to smile for once and refuse to feel guilty for it.

Aranea pops her head out of the hangar a moment later for her own personal shot with Prompto before pulling Vance aside to inquire about the current state of their supplies. In the meantime, Serge walks Prompto over to the road, waiting with him under the nearest lamp post for a passing vehicle that he can hitch a ride into town with. 

When they don’t immediately see anyone, Prompto turns to Serge and asks, “How’s your throat?”

“It wasn’t anything a potion couldn’t handle,” Serge says as he reaches up to rub it. “But I have to admit, I was surprised with the strength of Izunia’s grip.”

“He’s...something else, isn’t he?”

Serge snorts at the comment and then lets his gaze fall to the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicks a loose stone down the road and watches it skip away, looking a little lost in thought until he glances at Prompto and says, “Are you going to be alright? I never asked what went down between you and Ardyn in the end.”

Prompto is still watching that stone roll away. It eventually skips over the lip of the road and disappears into the ditch in dramatic fashion. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “Ardyn was _pissed_. He said he was going to wage a long and horrifying war with the world now that we’ve gone and spoiled his fun, but it didn’t sound like he had something else like Zephyr hiding up his sleeve. We can have a group brainstorming session when the rest of your team gets to Lestallum, but I don’t know how we’re going to figure out what he’s up to next. He didn’t drop much of a clue, unfortunately.”

Serge opens his mouth to say something, brow furrowed in such a way that he seems to have another question, but then an old red truck rounds the bend down the road, chugging along at a decent speed toward them. He raises his arm to flag it down for Prompto.

When the driver spots them and begins to slow, Prompto hikes the strap of his bag higher up his shoulder and says, “I guess this is goodbye for now.”

“Are you sure?” Serge asks. “Do you want someone to escort you home? I don’t think the Commodore would mind sparing me for an hour or two.”

His offer suddenly brings Prompto back to the fifth grade, when he hastily asked Anne Sybak if she wanted someone to walk her home after their photography club meeting adjourned. It had been pitch black outside, hence the offer, but Prompto kind of understood why she immediately declined, seeing that he was still short and stocky and obviously the least intimidating pseudo-guard imaginable at that age. 

All the same, he’s touched by the offer. He knows he’s got many sleepless nights ahead of him, and he won’t pretend that he’s still as scared as all hell of Ardyn popping up out of nowhere, but it feels like a waste of time and sanity worrying about something that he can’t control.

“I’ll be fine,” Prompto says, “but thanks for the offer.”

As the truck rolls to a stop beside them, Serge quickly fishes around inside one of the side pockets of his fatigue trousers for what looks like the oldest flip phone Prompto has seen in all his life. It’s honestly the only relic he’s ever stumbled across outside a dungeon. 

“Can I get your number?” Serge asks as he hands it over.

Having no idea how to access the contact list on a phone that doesn’t have a touch screen, Prompto just starts punching in numbers. Fortunately, the phone immediately switches to the dialing tab, so he just hits the ‘Call’ button and quickly hangs up again after he can hear his own phone ringing in his bag.

“Thank you,” Serge says after Prompto hands it back. “We’ll give you a call once we’re all settled in Lestallum. If anything comes up—anything at all—just give me a ring, mate.”

“Will do,” Prompto replies. “And likewise,” he adds, even though he has no idea what he could possibly do for some elite military unit.

Serge continues to stand there by the side of the road as the old woman in the truck rolls down the window and asks how she can help. She actually seems pleased by the prospect of having a little company when she lets Prompto hop in the front seat, launching into a spiel about the multitude of stray cats that she’s trying to feed in Lestallum. Prompto idly listens to her as he stares out the passenger window at Serge and Aranea’s airship as they grow smaller in the distance. Then, the road turns around another bend, and Prompto sees them no more.

There’s a sudden heaviness in his heart as they make their way to Lestallum, the growing dread of his impending conversation with his companions. He starts to feel a little nauseated about it by the time the truck pulls up at the gas station and he part ways with his gracious driver; he tries not think too hard about the task ahead, instead mentally distracting himself by watching all the people constructing what appears to be barricades from large piles of lumbar and other resources on the side of the road. He wonders if this means that the daemons have been wandering further into town at night or if Lestallum is expecting a coordinated attack from someone else. Neither scenario sounds like much fun.

When he finally turns down the street toward the flat he shares with Gladio and Ignis, he spots the former jogging his way, head bowed as he tries to read something on his phone. “Uh, hi,” Prompto quietly says as Gladio passes, not wanting to interrupt whatever urgent matter the other man is obviously wrapped up in.

Prompto doesn’t think he spoke loud enough to grab Gladio’s attention, but Gladio stops pretty much on a dime and whips his head around. “ _F_ _uck_ ,” he breathes, scaring the crap out of Prompto by swinging his arms around him and pulling him into the first and only hug he’s ever gotten from the other man, one that’s liable to break a few ribs. Prompto figures the big guy doesn’t have much experience in intimate but non-violent interactions.

“ _Can’t breathe_ ,” Prompto wheezes, taking in a deep breath just as soon as Gladio loosen his hold on him and takes a half step back.

The big guy still keeps a hand on Prompto’s shoulder, sighing in relief as he looks Prompto square in the eye and says, “I’m sorry.”

Gladio doesn’t usually _do_ apologies, so, needless to say, Prompto is starting to get a little weirded out. “I never thought I’d live to hear you say those words,” he chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “But really, the hug was nice. No need to apologize for that.”

“Okay, fine, but that wasn’t what I was apologizing for.” Gladio pauses a moment to quickly glance down the road and then again at his phone. “I have a meeting with Monica in five, so I have to run—I’m apologizing for letting you go to Niflheim alone.”

“Oh, well...I made it back alive,” Prompto mumbles, suddenly remembering how nervous he was about this exact conversation thirty seconds ago.

“We’ll talk more tonight,” Gladio promises as he heads off again, throwing a quick, “Iggy should have leftovers for you!” over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner.

Prompto takes another deep breath, this one less critical, and slowly blows it out between his lips as he drags his feet over to the door of their flat and invites himself in.

The first thing he notices once he’s inside is the warm aroma of lasagna still lingering in the air, one of Ignis’ specialties. The second is the sound of a kettle whistling violently on the stove right before he can hear it clanking around as it’s transferred to a hotplate. He deposits his bag by the door, rubs his boots off as best he can against the rug by the mudrack, and then slips off his gloves as he wanders down the hall to the kitchen.

“Hello?” Ignis calls out as Prompto steps into the room. The man has his hands poised above a lidless teapot, kettle in hand, holding onto it with the help of a dish rag. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, which was something he did pretty much religiously before Prompto left, white eyes twitching as they search for something he’ll likely never see again.

“Hey,” Prompto says quietly. “It’s just me.”

“Prompto,” Ignis sighs in relief, ever so carefully setting the kettle back down on the hotplate. Then he sets the dish rag over his shoulder and extends a hand toward Prompto. 

Prompto isn’t sure what to expect when he takes the proffered hand, but it sure isn’t another hug. Not that he’s complaining. He’s digging all the hugs 100%, even if Gladio clearly doesn’t know how to do them properly, but it’s kind of a bittersweet thing because it makes him realize that he isn’t the only person who misses Noctis and feels like a failure for leaving him to do some big, terrible, and incredibly important thing on his own. They probably thought they might lose Prompto too after he left Lestallum.

Fortunately, Ignis is a gentler hugger, so Prompto just relaxes into it until Ignis relinquishes his hold. Like Gladio, his first instinct is to then lay a hand on Prompto’s shoulder, at which point he runs his fingers over Prompto’s epaulette and quizzically says, “I didn’t know you took your uniform with you?”

Prompto sighs, because he knows that this is where the hard part starts, the point at which he gets to relive the horrors of his most recent trip to Niflheim, from start to finish. “I didn’t,” he says. “You should have a seat. I have a lot to tell you.”

“Alright,” Ignis replies, “but please don’t try to dilute the story on my behalf. Gladio’s of the opinion that he shouldn’t let anything stress me out, but I think you would agree that I’m not suddenly so fragile.”

Prompto feels guilty for momentarily thinking the complete opposite. It’s too easy to look at Ignis and feel like shit about his current condition, wanting to protect him from all the nitty gritty details of anything going on around him, but that isn’t fair. Ignis is still more intelligent than he is, emotionally and otherwise, and Prompto doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that Ardyn won’t be able to resist sharing the particulars of what he did to Prompto when they inevitably meet him again. He’s a bastard and a gloater, and he’s probably not going anywhere fast in the next ten years.

“I won’t,” Prompto promises as Ignis walks over to the table with measured steps and pulls out a chair to seat himself.

Prompto pours the rest of the hot water into the pot and tosses in a pouch of tea leaves to steep before he joins the other man at the table. Then he takes a deep breath and, with great difficulty, begins the story of what he discovered about Ardyn and the Crystal in Niflheim.

~***~

Midnight finds Prompto lying in bed with an incredible headache, although this one isn’t from some divine messenger trying to hail him from the astral plane.

It’s from having a good cry.

He never really understood what a ‘good’ cry was until he had to share the story of how the world’s biggest asshole broke him in for reasons still unknown to him. He cries even harder, though, when he admits to losing the Alstroemeria along the way, after having only ever used it once. The crying itself is horrific, but the aftereffect is cathartic, which is what the ‘good’ bit is. He feels lighter. Especially his head, but that might be more of a physiological thing than an emotional thing. It’s hard to tell. He just knows that it feels good to get the nightmare out in the open again, even if he could see the way Ignis’ grip tightened on his little mug of tea or how the muscles around his eyes and mouth tightened in pain once Prompto told him. However, Prompto knows that it would’ve been so much worse if Iggy had to hear it for the first time from Ardyn, so he powered through it and was quietly grateful that Ignis didn’t explode in a fit of rage like Gladio probably would have.

So...talking about the more personal bits was difficult, yes, but explaining Zephyr and what Ardyn wanted to do with it was a breeze. It gave Prompto something of a reprieve before Ignis launched into his many questions about what Metelyk had discussed with him, to which Prompto’s only answer was unfortunately ‘ _I don’t know_.’ He really _didn’t_ remember much, only that the messenger confirmed what Ardyn said about Noctis’ return and that The Powers That Be were covertly watching over them.

And that maybe...maybe Noctis would be happy when this was all over.

Even though Ignis is a walking encyclopedia, he has about as much secret knowledge of the messengers as he does the Crystal. Which isn’t much, although he said he could recall reading somewhere that all of the messengers partook of the Astral War, a few of which sided with Ifrit against humanity. Fortunately, Metelyk’s name didn’t appear to be among them, and since they seemed keen on throwing a wrench in Ardyn’s plans now, it was more likely than not that Prompto could trust them.

Prompto wrapped up his tale of Niflheim just a little bit before midnight, at which point he asked Ignis not to share the details of his rape with Gladio. Not yet, anyway. Anything else was fair game, but he already knew that Gladio was probably going to get angry about it—not at Prompto, of course—and that ‘angry’ was the worst state of mind for Gladio when they were still in panic mode over what they were supposed to do about Ardyn, the Crystal, Lestallum, and...well, _everything_ , really.

Speaking of Gladio, Prompto hears the other man step in through the front door just as Prompto is turning in for the night. Prompto can hear him talking with Ignis briefly in the hallway, but even though he figures Gladio will have some questions of his own about the trip, Prompto’s too exhausted to go back out there for round two. He’ll fill the big guy in tomorrow, after Gladio usually goes for his early morning run.

However, when he wakes the following morning, his headache isn’t any better and he’s got that whole-body weightiness that he used to get as a kid whenever he spent the night before crying. As such, he’s a little late on getting out of bed when he hears Gladio returning from his run, because by the time he hauls his ass up out of his cocoon of blankets and opens his bedroom door, the other man has disappeared off for another meeting. 

“When’s he going to be back?” Prompto asks, watching as Ignis puts on his sunglasses and grabs his cane from its usual spot by the door.

“A little after noon,” Ignis replies as he then drags his fingers along the hooks by the door to search for his set of keys to their flat. “The daemons have been making a nuisance of themselves at the powerplant. Holly asked to meet with him to discuss how they can remedy the situation tonight.”

“And where are you headed?” 

“The market.” Ignis smiles. “Any requests for lunch?”

It’s good to see the other man in such good spirits. He probably enjoys being able to wander around freely again, without Gladio constantly hovering over his shoulder.

“Nah,” Prompto replies, “I know I’m going to love whatever you make.”

Ignis hums softly in what sounds like delight and finally slips out the door.

With a small huff of laughter, Prompto retreats back into his room and, without meaning to, falls asleep again.

And this time, he dreams.

He first dreams of a tower, at the base of which he is standing, looking up. The sky above it is overcast and his vision is blurry. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the sounds of chains rattling and people moaning for their freedom.

Then he dreams of a darkened room, its only furniture, and source of light, a full length mirror propped up against the far wall. He can see what he _thinks_ is his reflection standing there, but this figment is adorned in white robes overlain by minimal armor, like the kind he once saw in a museum exhibit about the Solheim civilization. In his left hand, his reflection is holding a silver spear; in his right, he wields a small mace. Beneath his feet, it looks as though the floor is writhing, a black and glossy mass of cords that fold over and under themselves.

Beneath his visor, his reflection’s gaze suddenly shifts to someone standing behind Prompto. To this unknown entity, he says, _“Rise.”_

As Prompto turns to see who it is, he wakes.

And he feels like shit.

He’s freezing cold and covered in sweat, so tangled in his sheets that you’d think he was trying to strangle himself. It takes him a while to free himself and haul his aching body into the hall. He can hear Ignis moving around in the kitchen, working on lunch, so he stumbles into the bathroom and hunts for a potion in the medicine cabinet himself. Normally, he would try to ride the fever out, but his heart is pounding a mile a minute and he feels like something horrible is about to happen.

Fortunately, the potion calms him down enough that he’s able to kick these thoughts of imminent death and destruction before he shuffles into the kitchen. He finds Ignis in there, sitting at the table in the chair nearest to the open window. When he spots Prompto, he sits up a little straighter in his seat and gestures to the fresh bouquet of flowers in front of him, a lovely arrangement of pink, white, and orange alstroemerias. “I thought I would get you something, to celebrate your safe return.”

Prompto’s never had anyone get him flowers before. He knows it’s a reference to his lost Alstroemaria, so he appreciates the joke. “They’re not exactly as useful as a knife, but I’ll take them.”

“I’m glad.”

Prompto flashes him a quick smile before sitting down at the table to admire the flowers.

Then he jumps back out of his seat so suddenly that he knocks his chair over.

“Oh dear,” Ignis sighs, flicking his right hand hard at the wrist and materializing a set of sunglasses at will. “It’s the eyes. I _completely_ forgot that he’s blind.”

“Like hell you did,” Prompto hisses.

“Is this better?” the other man asks as he puts on the shades.

“Where’s Ignis?” Prompto snaps, ignoring him.

With a huff of annoyance, _not_ -Ignis pushes himself to his feet. “Oh, dearest, I only wanted to gaze upon your smiling face _but for a moment_. Can’t you just pretend that everything’s alright for another minute or two? Then I’ll humor this little spat you’re hellbent on having.”

“ _Where is Ignis_?!” Prompto yells. His heart is racing and his head is spinning. He’s shaking, too, but he doesn’t know if that’s from his rage or fear or panic.

The corner of not-Ignis’ mouth twitches into something of a half-cocked smile, his eyes locked on Prompto as he reaches over to pluck a pink flower from the vase. He smells it briefly, something heated in his gaze. Predatory.

Prompto turns to run, trying to remember if he has any guns stashed somewhere in the living room. However, he makes it all of three feet down the hall before he feels a familiar calloused hand closing around his wrist, spinning him back around hard enough that the two of them come crashing down to the floor together.

Ardyn has dropped his illusion now, dressed in his customary mess of clothes, his too-white teeth flashing as he laughs at the spectacle of his quarry straining for release beneath him. And he continues to laugh until Prompto stops thrashing, both hands pinned beside his head, the alstroemeria crushed between their bodies. 

Prompto can feel how hard the other man is already against his thigh.

“My _dear_ ,” Ardyn sighs with all the warm and whimsical delight of a man supposedly in love, “I often forget how old I am with you. You excite me like no other. It reminds me of the better days of my youth.”

Prompto closes his eyes because he knows he’s going to cry and he doesn’t want to see how much that’s going to excite Ardyn, which he _knows_ it will. He stupidly assumed that he would have more time before Ardyn struck again. He _honestly_ thought he would.

And now he’s fucked.

Both literally and figuratively.

 _Again_.

...Except, maybe, he’s not, because Ardyn slowly releases his grip and rises to his feet, brushing off the few flower petals stuck to his vest like that little show of power and control is enough to tide him over for a while yet until...whenever.

“He’s en route to Insomnia as we speak,” Ardyn finally says as he goes about readjusting the hat on his head. “To the Citadel, to be more precise.”

Prompto swallows the lump of emotions lodged in his throat. “...Why?” 

“Because that is where I will be again shortly,” Ardyn replies, “and because that is where my General should be, _with me_.” He cocks his head to one side as he gives Prompto a quick once over. “As should you, when you’re ready to return to me.”

Slowly, Prompto sits up. “Ardyn—” he begins to say.

But Ardyn doesn’t wait for him. He simply winks at Prompto and vanishes, leaving a faint imprint of light in his wake.

Prompto sits on the floor for a little while longer, completely stunned. 

He’s still in a state of shock when he eventually pushes himself up onto his feet. He’s trembling, but he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Reality suddenly feels too unreal.

…

Ardyn has Iggy. 

Stumbling down the hall toward the front door, Prompto sees that Ignis’ cane and keys are still gone, which means that Ardyn somehow grabbed him between now and however long ago he left for the market. Prompto then turns left into his bedroom and grabs his phone off the bedside table, yanking out the charging cable. His hands are shaking so hard that he misses Ignis’ number on his contacts list three times, just about calling his favorite pizza place instead before he finally gets it right.

When he lifts the phone to his ear, he hears it ring once, twice, and then someone picks up on the other end.

 _“Oh, dearest_... _”_ Ardyn chuckles, enjoying this little game of his far too much, _“I’m afraid that General Scientia is available by appointment only. How about I pen you down for 18:00 three days from now? We’ll have dinner afterwards. You can stay the night. Ta~!”_

Before Prompto can say anything, he hangs up.

 _“Fuck_ ,” Prompto says, that tremble now in his voice, too. He scrolls to the top of his contacts list for Gladio’s number and fortunately hits it on the first try. “ _Fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ —”

 _“Hello?”_ Gladio grunts after the first ring.

As relieved as Prompto is that Ardyn appears to have taken only one of his companions, he’s fighting to hold back his tears as he spits out the bad news.

“It’s Ardyn,” Prompto sobs. “He took Iggy.”

~***~

~To be continued~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The series will be entirely Prompto-centric, but since Gladio and Ignis also have to put up with Ardyn's shit until Noctis returns, they will of course be a part of the adventure. They just won't attract the same kind of unwanted attention from Ardyn that poor Prompto does. 
> 
> Next week is going to be insanely busy for me, but I should have the first chapter of the next fic out sometime in mid January. In the meantime, I hope you are all able to enjoy the beginning of 2021! My thoughts and prayers are with everyone struggling with the absolute mess that 2020 left us in...
> 
> PS: I've noticed that AO3 randomly likes to leave spaces behind and after italicised words. Sorry about that. I have no idea why it does that. I'll fix anything I see tomorrow when I do my customary post-posting corrections.


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